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SELECTIONS  IN  POETRY 


EXERCISES  AT  SCHOOL  AND  AT  HOME 


(BMtpii  liif  Inrgtnt. 

WITH  ILLUSTRATIONS  BY  BILLINGS  AND  OTHERS. 


Who  is  it  that  ever  was  a scholar,  that  doth  not  carry  away  some  verses  which 
in  his  youth  he  learned,  and  even  to  old  age  serve  him  for  hourly  lessons  ? 

Sir  Philip  Sidney. 


PHILADELPHIA: 

THOMAS,  COWPERTHWAIT  & CO. 

M DCCC?  LIII. 


ENTERED  ACCORDING  TO  ACT  OF  CONGRESS,  IN  THE  YEAR  185^  BY 
EPES  SARGENT, 

IN  THE  clerk’s  OFFICE  OF  THE  DISTRICT  COURT  OF  THE  DISTRICT  OP 
MASSACHUSETTS. 


Stereotyped  by 
HOBART  & ROBBINS, 
Boston. 


are. 


The  influence  of  poetry  as  a beneficent  auxiliary  in 
education  is  hardly  yet  appreciated ; but  there  is  a 
growing  sense  of  its  importance,  and  to  meet  the  de- 
mands of  this  growth  the  present  collection  has  been 
made.  It  is  composed  mainly  of  pieces  of  approved 
excellence,  and  such  as  are  fitted  as  well  by  their  pure 
moral  tone  as  by  the  harmony  and  beauty  of  their 
structure  to  elevate  the  standard  of  taste,  and  happily 
impress  the  memory.  Genuine  poetry,  in  its  simplest 
forms,  appeals  to  the  sympathies  of  all, — of  the  old  as 
Tvell  as  the  young ; and  although  this  collection  is 
adapted  to  the  wants  of  more  advanced  pupils,  it  will 
be  found  to  contain  much  that  will  be  easily  learned 
and  recited  by  children.  The  aid  of  the  pencil  has 
been  occasionally  called  in,  to  impart  a graphic  interest 
to  pieces,  and  to  indicate  the  alliance  between  the  sister 
arts.  All  the  original  designs  in  the  volume  are  by 
Mr.  Hammatt  Billings,  an  artist  of  singular  merit,  and 
of  much  felicity  of  execution. 

It  is  remarked  by  an  English  compiler, — Dr.  Allen, 
to  whose  collection  of  ^'Select  English  Poetry^’  we  are 

469210 


IV 


PREFACE. 


happy  to  acknowledge  our  indebtedness, — that  ^Hhe 
earliest  advantage  which  is  found  to  arise  from  the 
practice  of  learning  and  reciting  passages  of  poetry  is 
an  improvement  of  the  faculty  of  memory.  Sentiments 
■which,  if  expressed  in  prose,  would  soon  be  forgotten, 
frequently,  when  clothed  in  verse,  produce  a permanent 
impression.  The  mind  may  thus  be  gradually  stored 
with  maxims  of  the  purest  morality ; while  the  reciting 
of  poetry  is,  in  the  language  of  Lord  Clarendon,  ^ the 
best  and  most  natural  way  to  introduce  an  assurance 
and  confidence  in  speaking  with  that  leisure  and  tone 
of  pronunciation  that  is  decent  and  graceful,  and  in 
which  so  few  men  are  excellent,  for  want  of  informa- 
tion and  care  -when  they  were  young.’  ” 

We  do  not  suppose  that  any  vindication  of  poetry 
is  needed  in  this  country,  at  this  stage  of  the  world’s 
cultivation.  The  time  has  gone  by  for  illiberal  notions 
on  the  subject.  Poetry,  like  religion,  rests  on  the 
necessity  of  supplying  the  inherent  cravings  of  our 
intellectual  and  spiritual  nature ; and  a taste  for  it 
should  be  cultivated  with  the  assiduity  with  which 
any  other  faculty,  essential  to  the  health  of  a well- 
balanced  organization,  is  brought  into  activity.  It  is 
ever  the  companion  of  an  earnest  religious  faith.  Gen- 
uine poetry,  even  in  its  most  cheerful  moods,  is  always 
religious ; indeed,  it  is  cheerful  simply  because  it  is 
religious.  It  cannot  survive  in  an  atheistical  atmos- 

o 

phcrc.  Some  few  instances  may  be  named  in  which 
the  poetical  faculty  has  been  allied  with  intellectual 


PREFACE. 


V 


unbelief ; but  the  union  has  never  been  of  long  dura- 
tion. The  one  flame  must  absorb  the  other.  If  the 
undevout  astronomer  be  mad,  an  undevout  poet  is  an 
anomaly  in  nature.  ^ ^ Creation  has  too  much  of  the 
divinity  insinuated  into  her  beauties,’’  says  the  Rev. 
Charles  Wolfe,  ^^to  allow  poetry  to  hesitate  in  her 
creed.  She  demands  no  proof  She  waits  for  no 
demonstration.  She  looks,  and  she  believes.  She 
admires,  and  she  adores.” 

^‘It  seems  to  us,”  says  Dr.  Channing,  referring  to 
poetry,  the  divinest  of  all  arts  ; for  it  is  the  breath- 
ing or  expression  of  that  principle  or  sentiment  which 
is  deepest  and  sublimest  in  human  nature.  No  doc- 
trine is  more  common  among  Christians  than  that  of 
man’s  immortality ; but  it  is  not  so  generally  under- 
stood that  the  germs  or  principles  of  his  whole  future 
being  are  nov)  wrapped  up  in  his  soul,  as  the  rudi- 
ments of  the  future  plant  in  the  seed.  As  a necessary 
result  of  this  constitution,  the  soul,  possessed  and 
moved  by  these  mighty  though  infant  energies,  is  per- 
petually stretching  beyond  what  is  present  and  visible, 
struggling  against  the  bounds  of  its  earthly  prison- 
house,  and  seeking  relief  and  joy  in  imaginings  of 
unseen  and  ideal  being.  This  view  of  our  nature,  which 
has  never  been  fully  developed,  and  which  goes  further 
towards  explaining  the  contradictions  of  human  life 
than  all  others,  carries  us  to  the  very  foundation  and 
sources  of  poetry.”  ‘^It  is  not  true  that  the  poet 
paints  a life  which  does  not  exist.  He  only  extracts 


VI 


PREFACE. 


and  concentrates,  as  it  were,  life’s  ethereal  essence, 
arrests  and  condenses  its  volatile  fragrance,  brings 
together  its  scattered  beauties,  and  prolongs  its  more  ' 
refined  but  evanescent  joys.  And  in  this  he  does 
well ; for  it  is  good  to  feel  that  life  is  not  wholly 
usurped  by  cares  for  subsistence  and  physical  gratifi- 
cations, but  admits,  in  measures  which  may  be  indefi- 
nitely enlarged,  sentiments  and  delights  worthy  of  a 
higher  being.  This  power  of  poetry  to  refine  our 
views  of  life  and  happiness  is  more  and  more  needed 
as  society  advances.” 

If  these  views  of  poetry  are  true,  we  cannot  well 
exaggerate  the  importance  of  the  cultivation  of  a taste 
for  its  enjoyments  by  the  young ; and  especially  by 
tlie  female  portion,  by  whom  the  destinies  of  future 
immortals  are  to  be  to  so  great  an  extent  influenced, 
for  evil  or  for  good. 

“ What  is  a man, 

If  his  chief  good  and  market  of  his  time 
Be  but  to  sleep  and  feed  1 — a beast,  no  more  ! 

Sure  He  that  made  us  with  such  large  discourse. 

Looking  before  and  after,  gave  us  not 
That  capability  and  God-like  reason 
To  rust  in  us  unused  ! ” 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 


The  Sabbath  Sunset, 

Prison  Consolations  of  the  Muse,  . . . 

Fancy, 

Epistle  to  the  Countess  of  Cumberland, 

Hymn, 

My  Little  Cousins, 

Admonition, 

I See  Thee  Still, 

Moral  Alchemy, 

The  Ministry  of  Angels, 

Summer  Longings, 

Friendship, 

On  the  Death  of  Thomson, 

Never  Despair, 

Love,  Hope  and  Patience,  in  Education, 

Jafifar, 

Sun  and  Shower, . 

To  Seneca  Lake, 

The  Call  of  Samuel, 

God  is  Here, 

Prayers  for  a Child, 

It  is  Told  me  I mi^st  Die,  

The  Dead  Friend, 

The  Sabbath  Morning, 

Affectation, 

A Thought  suggested  by  the  New  Year, 

The  Child  and  the  Angels, 

Lines  in  a Mother’s  Bible, 

‘‘Not  to  Myself  Alone,” 

The  Daisy, 

Stanzas, 

The  Lamentation  for  Celin, 

Character  of  the  Happy  Warrior,  , . 
A Plea  for  our  Physical  Life,  .... 

Evening  Time, 

“ We  Joy  that  Thou  art  Free,”  . . . 

The  Ploughman, 

The  First  of  March, 


Wither, . . . 
Leigh  Hunt, . 
Daniel,  . . . 
Addison,  . . 
Praed,  . . . 
Aaron  Hill,  . 
Sprague,  . . 
Horace  Smith, 
Spenser,  . . 


Wordsworth, 
Collms, . . 


Coleridge, 

Leigh  Hunt, 

Sarah  Flower  Adams, . . 

Percival, 

Cawood, 


Lady  Duncan,  . . . . 
Richard  Langhorne,  . . 

Southey, 

Leyden, 

Cumberland, 

Campbell, 

Charles  Swain,  .... 
Kennedy, 


. Good,  . . , 
. Brainard,  . , 
. Lockhart,  . , 
. Wordsworth, 

. Mackay,  . . 
. Montgomery, 


Holmes,  . . 
Horace  Smith, 


21 

22 

24 

24 

26 

28 

29 

30 

31 

32 

33 

34 

35 

36 

37 

38 

39 

40 

41 

42 

43 

44 

45 

47 

48 

48 

49 

50 

51 

53 

54 

55 
57 
60 
61 
62 
63 
65 


VIII 


CONTENTS. 


Stanza, Bowring, GG 

The  Light-house, 67 

Hope  and  Love, Praed, 68 

Sermons  in  Sonnets, Rev.  C.  H.  Townshend,  . 70 

True  Courage, Bowring, 73 

The  Three  Homes,  . 74 

The  Grood  Man’s  Exit, Blair, 75 

Ode, 76 

A Dream  of  Summer, Whittier, 77 

Farewell  Life, Hood, 78 

Days  of  my  Youth, Tucker,  - 79 

True  Philosophy,  79 

Blessed  are  They  that  Mourn,”  . . .Bryant, 80‘ 

The  Humble-bee, Emerson, 81 

The  Bitter  Gourd, Leigh  Hunt, 83 

She  Came  and  Went,  Lowell, 84 

Reasons  for  Risibility, Fitzgerald, 85 

The  Use  of  Flowers, Mary  Howitt, 86 

Hymn  to  the  Flowers, Horace  Smith, 88 

On  Poetry, Townshend, 90 

Autumn  Flowers, Mrs.  Southey, 91 

. 92 

. 93 

. 94 

. 96 

. 98 

. 99 

. 100 

. 101 

. 102 

, 103 

. 104 

. 105 


Give, Mrs.  Sigourney,  . 

The  Better  Land, Mrs.  Hernans,  . . 

A Psalm  of  Life, Longfellow,  . . . 

Ode  to  Duty, Wordsworth,  . . 

Summer  Heat, Thomson,  .... 

Forgiveness, Kennedy,  .... 

Hannibal’s  Oath, Miss  Landon,  . . 

Man, Herbert,  .... 

The  Daffodils, Wordsworth,  . . 

Coronach, Scott, 

A Prayer, Beckford,  .... 

Death  and  the  Warrior, Mrs.  Hernans, 


An  Angel  in  the  House, Leigh  Hunt, 107 

The  Grasshopper, Cowley, 107 

The  Author’s  Last  Verses, Mrs.  Osgood, 108 

A Phantom  of  Delight, Wordsworth, 109 

Farewell  to  Pdvilin, Ebenezer  Elliot,  . . . .110 

The  Winds, Bryant, Ill 

Sonnet  to  Wordsworth, Hartley  Coleridge,  . . .113 

Adoration  amid  Natural  Scenes,  ....  Wordsworth, 114 

“0  ! Steal  not  Thou  my  Faith  away,”  . Lyons, 116 

Imitated  from  the  Persian, Southey, 117 

April, Whittier, 118 

My  Jjittle  Sister, Robert  Macnish,  . . . .119 

Signals  of  Liberty, G.  1).  Prentice,  ....  120 

The  Child  of  Earth, Mrs.  Norton, 121 

Hymn  of  the  Hebrew  Maid, Sir  Walter  Scott,  . . .123 

To  a Ljidy  on  her  ALirriage, Fitzgerald, 124 

Beauty,  Wit  and  Gold, .’126 

To  my  Piaiioforte, Leigh  Hunt, 127 

Song  of  a Guardian  Spirit, Mrs.  Hcnians, 128 


CONTENTS. 


IX 


Helvellyn, . 

Faith, 

God, 

The  Rainy  Day, 

Why  thus  Longing  

The  Mother  and  Child, 

The  Factory  Children’s  Holiday,  .... 

To  a Friend  on  his  Marriage, 

The  Old  Oaken  Bucket, 

Immortality, 

Only  Thine, 

Early  Piety, 

Dreams, 

Hymn  for  One  Departed, ‘.  . 

Happiness, 

Christian  Patriotism, 

The  Deserted  House, 

The  Light  of  Stars, 

I Remember,  I Remember, 

The  Tranquil  Mind, 

The  Old  Man’s  Comforts, 

Too  Late  I Staid, 

The  Lyre  and  Sword, 

The  Flight  of  Faith, 

The  Sky-lark, 

Blessing  of  a Concealed  Future,  .... 

Lycidas, 

The  Alpine  Storm, 

For  Comfort  in  Death, 

The  Servian  Youth  to  a Traveller,  . . . 

My  Birth -day, 

Veni  Creator, 

Glimpses  of  Future  Life, 

To  Little  Mary, 

Sleep,  

Character  of  a Happy  Life, 

Moonlight, 

Strength  from  Above, 

A Song  of  Contradictions, 

The  Widow  of  Nain, 

The  Song  of  the  Shirt, 

The  Happy  Man, 

From  the  Arabic, 

Pvemorse, 

Blessings  Unobserved, 

Of  a Contented  Mind, 

A Wet  Sheet  and  a Flowing  Sea,  . . . 

The  Eloquent  Pastor, 

The  Holly-tree, 

Lift  up  Thine  Eyes,  Afflicted  Soul,  . . . 

Spirit  of  Delight, 

To  a Child  Six  Fears  Old,  during  Sickness, 

1# 


Sir  Walter  Scott,  . . .129 
Fritz  and  Leolett,  . . .130 

Derzhavine, 131 

Longfellow, 135 

Harriet  Winslow,  . . .135 

137 

Elliot, 138 

Hartley  Coleridge,  . . .139 

Woodworth, 140 

Dana, 141 

Heber, 142 

Heber, 143 

144 

Wilson, 145 

Heber, 148 

Couyper, 149 

Tennyson, 151 

Longfellow, 151 

Hood, 153 

Waller, 154 

Southey, 154 

Spencer, 155 

Mrs.  Hemans, 156 

Moore, 158 

Hogg, 159 

Pope, 160 

Milton, 161 

Byron, 164 

Robert  Herrick,  . . . .165 

166 

Moore, 167 

Dry  den, 168 

Henry  Vaughan,  . . .170 

Mrs.  Southey, 170 

Mrs.  Browning,  . . . .173 

Wotton, 175 

Shakspeare, 176 

Milton, 176 

Laman  Blanchard,  . . .177 

Heber, 178 

Hood, 179 

Cowper, 182 

183 

Byron, 184 

Milnes, 185 

186 

Cunningham, 187 

Laman  Blanchard,  . . .188 

Southey, 189 

Montgom.ery , 190 

Shelley, 191 

Leigh  Hunt, 193 


X 


CONTENTS. 


Where  is  the  Seal Mrs,  Hemansy 194 

Christian  Virgin  to  her  Apostate  Lover,  . Rev.  T.  Dale^ 195 

Summer  Evening  by  the  Sea, Rev,  C.  H.  Townshend, , 197 

On  the  Death  of  an  Infant, Jane  Taylor 198 

Sonnet, Rev,  W.  L.  Bowles y . .198 

Bible, Rev.  R.  Hoyt, *199 

The  Lily  of  the  Valley, Rev.  G.  Croly,  , , . .201 

Forgiveness, 201 

Solitude, Shahspearey 202 

The  Evening  Cloud, Wilson, 202 

The  Thunder-storm, Klopstock, 205 

A Lesson  for  Future  Life,  204 

The  Worth  of  Woman, Schiller, 205 

Ode  to  a Gold  Coin, Dr.  John  Leyden,  . . . 207 

The  True  Refuge,  Heber, 209 


To  Fortune,  Thomas  Carew, 

Niagara, Brainard, . . . , 

Epitaph  on  Mrs.  Mason, William  Mason, 

Independence, Thomson, . . . , 

Is  there,  for  Honest  Poverty, Burns,  .... 

Evening, Byron,  . . . . , 

Hope, Schiller,  . . . , 

Thanksgiving, Elliot,  . . . . , 

God  Pro  vide  th  for  the  Morrow,  ....  Heber, 

Human  Life, Coleridge, . . . , 

The  Death  of  Schiller, Bryant, 


, 209 
, 210 
, 211 
. 211 
. 212 
, 215 
214 
, 215 

, 216 

, 217 

• 218 

Castles  in  the  Air, 219 

Songs  of  Being, 221 

Prose  and  Song, John  Sterling, 223 

An  Evening  Re  very, Bryant, 224 

The  Golden  Year,  Tennyson, 225 

Cheerfulness, Salis, 22^ 

Vespers, Heber, 228 

The  Kingdom  of  God, Harriet  Winslow,  . . .228 

The  Sonnet, Wordsworth, 230 

Monody, Halleck, 231 

Happiest  Days, 232 

I Dream  of  All  Things  Free, Mrs,  Hemans, 233 

A Christmas  Hymn, Alfred  Domett,  , . . .234 

The  Past  makes  the  Future, Coleridge, 236 

The  Home  of  thy  Rest, T,  K,  Hervey,  ....  236 

The  Glimpse, F,  W.  Faber, 238 

Human  Love, Willis, 238 

Riches, Thos.  Randolph,  ....  239 

Corn-fields, Mary  Howitt, 240 

Of  Solitude, Cowley, 242 

Temperance, Milton, 243 

The  Honest  Man,  Herbert, 244 

The  Parrot, Campbell, 245^ 

Persecution, Bowring, 246 

Spiritual  Population  of  the  Universe,  . . Milton, 248 

May  Morning  at  Ravenna, Leigh  Hunt, 248 


CONTENTS. 


XI 


The  True  Life, 

The  Prison, 

Hymn, 

Stanzas, 

The  Snow-storm, 

The  Belvidere  Apollo, 

Book  of  the  World, 

Sin,  

Elijah’s  Interview, 

The  Marigold, 

Hymn  to  the  Stars, 

“ There  is  a Tongue  in  Every  Leaf,”  . 

Address  to  Poets, 

Early  Bising  and  Prayer, 

The  Butterfly, 

An  Apologue, 

Providence, 

The  Hour  of  Death, 

Address  to  a Wild  Deer, 

The  Last  Man, 

Lines  written  in  Early  Spring,  . . . 

Bhyme  not  Poetry, . 

Cloud-land, 

The  Sea-bird’s  Song, 

Eden, 

Liberty,  

The  Bugle  Song, 

The  Disembodied  Spirit, 

An  American  Forest  Spring,  .... 

The  Swallows, 

The  Dilemma, 

To  Night, 

The  Village  Preacher, 

Look  Aloft, 

Occasion, 

Hope’s  Brighter  Shore,  

The  Moral  Law, * . . . . 

Books, 

On  Parting  with  my  Books, 

Immortality  of  Lrjve, 

Hymn  of  a Hermit, 

Boat-song,  

The  Crucifixion, 

A Northern  Spring, 

Musings  in  the  Temple  of  Nature,  . . 

Montgolfier  in  his  Balloon, 

The  Young  Lochinvar, 

The  Believer’s  Triumph  in  Death,  . . 

The  Leap  for  Life, 

Ear  out  at  Sea, 

On  the  Receipt  of  my  Mother’s  Picture, 
Nature’s  Ministrations, 


. P.  J.  Bailey, 249 

. Coleridge, 250 

. Bowring, 251 

252 

. Emerson, 253 

. Milman, 254 

, Drummond, 256 

. Herbert, 256 

. Campbell, 257 

. George  Wither,  . . . .258 

259 

. Mrs.  Southey, 261 

. Keble, 263 

. Henry  Vaughan,  . . . .264 
. Bernard  Barton,  ....  266 

. T.  Gas2')ry, 268 

. Leigh  Hunt, 270 

. Mrs.  Hemans, 270 

. Wilson, 272 

. Campbell, 275 

. Wordsworth, 277 

. Pope, 278 

. Coleridge, 279 

. Brainard, 280 

. Milton, 281 

. Coleridge, 283 

. Tennyson, 283 

. Peabody, 284 

. Alfred  B.  Street,  ....  285 

. Hayley, 287 

. Holmes, 288 

. J.  Blanco  White,  . . . 290 

. Goldsmith, 290 

. Lawrence, 292 

293 

294 

. Wordsworth, 295 

. Southey, 296 

. William  Roscoe,  . . . .297 

. Southey, 297 

. John  Sterling, 298 

301 

. Montgomery, 302 

. Holmes, 302 

, Chatfield, 305 

. Darwin, 307 

. Scott, 308 

. Toplady, 309 

. Geo.  P.  Morris,  . . . .311 

: 312 

Cowper, 313 

. Wordsworth, 317 


XII 


CONTENTS. 


An  Evenin"  Thoupjht, 

, Rp/if.  C.  H.  Townahend, 

318 

The  Child’s  Warning, 

Mrs.  Southey,  .... 

. 318 

Immortal  Hopes, 

Wilson, 

Hymn  to  Adversity, 

(rray, 

. 321 

May, 

Pcrcival, 

. 323 

Stanzas, 

, Charles  Wolfe,  . . . 

. 324 

Elegy  written  in  a Country  Church-yard, 

(^rray, 

. 325 

Life  Beyond  the  Tomb, 

Beattie, 

To  the  Rainbow, 

Campbell, 

Autumn, 

Wordsworth,  .... 

. 333 

The  Dying  Christian  to  his  Soul,  . . . . 

Popp, 

Nature  and  her  Lover, 

Mackay, 

. 335 

INDEX  OF  AUTHORS 


Adams,  Sarah  F.  page 

Sun  and  Shower,  39 

Addison,  Joseph.  (Born,  1672  ; died,  1710.) 

How  are  thy  Servants  Blest,  0 Lord, 26 

The  Spacious  Firmament  on  High, 76 

Bailey,  P.  J. 

The  True  Life.  (From  “Festus  ”), 249 

Barton,  Bernard.  (Born,  1784  ; died,  1849.) 

The  Butterfly.  (Illustrated), 266 

Beattie,  James.  (Born,  1735  ; died,  1803.) 

Life  Beyond  the  Tomb, 330 

Beckford,  William.  (Died,  1844.) 

Prayer, 104 

Blair,  Robert.  (Born,  1700  ; died,  1746.) 

The  Good  Man’s  Exit.  (From  “ The  Grave  ”), 75 

Blanchard,  Laman.  (Born,  1803  ; died,  1845.) 

A Song  of  Contradictions, 177 

The  Eloquent  Pastor,  188 

Bowles,  Bev.  William  Lisle.  (Born,  1762  ; died,  1850.) 

Sonnet  to  a Lady, 198 

Bowring,  John. 

Stanza,  66 

True  Courage, 73 

God.  (From  the  Russian  of  Herzhavine), 131 

Persecution,  246 

Hymn, 251 

Brainard,  J.  G.  C.  (Hied,  1828.) 

The  Head  Leaves  Strew  the  Forest  Walk, 54 

Niagara, 210 

The  Sea-bird’s  Song.  (Illustrated), 280 

Browning,  Mrs.  Elizabeth  Barrett. 

Sleep.  (Illustrated), 173 

Bryant,  William  Cullen, 

Blessed  are  they  that  Mourn, 80 

The  Winds, Ill 

The  Heath  of  Schiller, 218 

An  Evening  Revery, 224 

Byron,  Lord  George  Gordon.  (Born,  1788  ; died,  1824.) 

The  Alpine  Storm.  (From ‘‘ Childe  Harold  ”), 164 

Remorse.  (From  “Manfred”), 184 

Evening.  (From  “ Hon  Juan  ”), 213 


XIV 


INDEX  OF  AUTHORS. 


Burns,  Robert.  (Born,  1758  ; died,  179G.) 

Is  there,  for  Honest  Poverty, 212 

Campbell,  Thomas.  (Born,  1777  ; died,  1844.) 

A Thought  suggested  by  the  New  Year, 48 

The  Parrot.  (A  true  incident), 245 

Elijah’s  Interview, 257 

The  Last  Man, 275 

To  the  Rainbow, 331 

Carew,  Thomas.  (Born,  1589  ; died,  1G39.) 

To  Fortune, 209 

Cawood. 

The  Call  of  Samuel, 41 

Chatfield,  Dr. 

Musings  in  the  Temple  of  Nature, 305 

Coleridge,  Samuel  Taylor.  (Born,  1770  ; died,  1834.) 

Love,  Hope  and  Patience,  in  Education, 37 

Human  Life  ; on  the  Denial  of  Immortality, 217 

The  Past  makes  the  Future, 236 

The  Prison.  (From  the  tragedy  of  “ Remorse  ”), 250 

Cloud-land  : a Sonnet, 279 

Liberty.  (From  “France,  an  Ode  ”),  283 

Coleridge,  Hartley.  (Born,  1797  ; died,  1849.) 

Sonnet  to  Wordsworth, 113 

To  a Friend  on  his  Marriage, 139 

Collins,  William.  (Born,  1720  ; died,  1756.) 

On  the  Death  of  Thomson,  35 

Cowley,  Abraham.  (Born,  1618  ; died,  1667.) 

The  Grasshopper, 107 

Of  Solitude, 242 

CowPER,  William.  (Born,  1731  ; died,  1800.) 

Christian  Patriotism, 149 

The  Happy  Man, 182 

On  the  Receipt  of  my  Mother’s  Picture, 313 

Croly,  Rev.  George. 

The  Lily  of  the  Valley,  201 

Cumberland,  Richard.  (Born,  1732  ; died,  1811.) 

Affectation, 48 

Cunningham,  Allan.  (Born,  1785  ; died,  1842.) 

A Wet  Sheet  and  a Flowing  Sea, 187 

Dale,  Rev.  Thomas. 

The  Christian  Virgin  to  her  Apostate  Lover, 195 

Dana,  Richard  H. 

Immortality, 141 

Daniel,  Samuel.  (Born,  1562  ; died,  1619.) 

Epistle  to  the  Countess  of  Cumberland.  (Extract),  ....  24 
Darwin,  Erasmus.  (Born,  1721  ; died,  1802.) 

Montgolfier  in  his  Balloon, 307 

Derziiavine,  Gabriel  R.  (Born,  1743  ; died,  1819.) 

God.  (Translated  from  the  Russian  by  Bowring), 131 

Domett,  Alfred. 

A (Jhristinas  Hymn, 234 


INDEX  OP  AUTHORS. 


XV 


Drummond,  William.  (Born,  1585  ; died,  1649.) 

The  Book  of  the  World, 256 

Dryden,  John.  (Born,  1631  ; died,  1700.) 

Veni  Creator  (Come,  Creator), 168 

Duncan,  Lady. 

Morning  and  Evening  Prayers  for  a Child, 43 

Elliot,  Ebenezer.  (Born,  1781  ; died,  1849.) 

Earewell  to  Rivilin, 110 

The  Factory  Children’s  Holiday, 138 

Thanksgiving, 215 

Emerson,  Ralph  Waldo. 

The  Humble-bee, 81 

The  Snow-storm.  (Illustrated),  253 

Faber,  Rev.  F.  W. 

The  Glimpse, 238 

Fitzgerald,  E.  M. 

Reasons  for  Risibility, 85 

To  a Lady  on  her  Marriage, 124 

Fritz  and  Leolett. 

Faith, 130 

Gaspry,  T. 

An  Apologue, 268 

Goldsmith,  Oliver.  (Born,  1731  ; died,  1774.) 

The  Village  Preacher.  (From  “The  Deserted  Village  ”),  . . 290 
Good,  John  Mason.  (Born,  1764  ; died,  1827.) 

The  Daisy, 53 

Gray,  Thomas.  (Born,  1716  ; died,  1771.) 

Ode  to  Adversity, 321 

Elegy  in  a Country  Church -yard, 325 

Halleck,  Fitz  Greene. 

Monody  on  the  Death  of  Lieutenant  Allen, 231 

Hayley,  William.  (Born,  1745  ;•  died,  1820.) 

The  Swallows  ; Written  in  Expectation  of  Death,  287 

Heber,  Reginald,  Bishop  of  Calcutta.  (Born,  1783  ; died,  1826.) 

Only  Thine, 142 

Early  Piety, 143 

Happiness, 148 

The  Widow  of  Nain, 178 

The  True  Refuge, .209 

God  Provideth  for  the  Morrow.  (Illustrated), 216 

Vespers, 228 

Hemans,  Mrs.  Felicia.  (Born,  1794  : died,  1835.) 

The  Better  Land, 93 

Death  and  the  Warrior.  (Illustrated), 105 

Song  of  a Guardian  Spirit,  128 

The  Lyre  and  the  Sword.  (Illustrated), 156 

Where  is  the  Sea  .194 

I Dream  of  all  Things  Free, 233 

The  Hour  of  Death, 270 

Herbert,  George.  (Born,  1593  ; died,  1632.) 

Man, 101 


XVI 


INDEX  OF  AUTHORS. 


Constancy  ; or,  The  Honest  Man, 244 

Sin, 250 

Herrick,  Hobert.  (Born,  1591  ; died,  about  1G07.) 

For  Comfort  in  Heath, 1G5 

Hervey,  T.  K. 

I Know  Thou  art  Gone  to  the  Home  of  thy  Rest, 23 G 

Hill,  Aaron.  (Born,  1G84  ; died,  1749.) 

Admonition, 29 

Hogg,  James.  (Born,  1782  ; died,  1835.) 

The  Skylark, 159 

Holmes,  Oliver  Wendell. 

The  Ploughman, G3 

The  Hilemma.  (Illustrated), 288 

A Northern  Spring, 302 

Hood,  Thomas.  (Born,  1798  ; died,  1845.) 

Farewell  Life  ! My  Senses  Swim, 78 

I Remember,  I Remember, 153 

The  Song  of  the  Shirt, 179 

IIowiTT,  Mary, 

The  Use  of  Flowers.  (Illustrated), 80 

Corn-fields, 240 

Hoyt,  Rev.  Ralph. 

Bible.  (Illustrated), 199 

Hunt,  Leigh.  (Born,  1784.) 

Fancy, 24 

Jafiar  : an  Eastern  Tradition, 38 

The  Bitter  Gourd  : an  Eastern  Tradition, 83 

An  Angel  in  the  House, 107 

To  my  Pianoforte, 127 

To  a Child  Six  Years  Old,  during  Sickness,  193 

May  Morning  at  Ravenna, ^ 248 

Providence, 270 

Keble,  John. 

Address  to  Poets, 2C3 

Kennedy,  William. 

Lines  in  a Mother’s  Bible, 50 

Forgiveness, 99 

Klopstock,  Frederick  Theophilus.  (Born,  1724  ; died,  1803.) 

The  Thunder-storm.  (From  the  German  of), 203 

Landon,  Letitia  E.  (Mrs.  Maclean).  (Born,  1802  ; died,  1838.) 

Hannibal’s  Oath, 100 

Langhorne,  Richard.  (Executed  in  1679,  for  political  reasons.) 

It  is  Told  me  I Must  Hie,  44 

Lawrence,  Jonathan. 

Look  Aloft, 292 

Leyden,  John.  (Born,  1775  ; died,  1811.) 

The  Sabbath  Morning, 47 

Ode  to  a Gold  Coin, 207 

Lockhart,  J.  G! 

Lamentation  for  the  Heath  of  Celin, 55 

Longfellow,  Henry  Wadsworth. 

A Psalm  of  Life, 94 


INDEX  OF  AUTHORS. 


XVII 


The  Rainy  Day, 135 

The  Light  of  Stars,  151 

Lowell,  James  Russell. 

She  Came  and  Went, 84 

Lyons,  Rev.  James  Gilborne. 

0,  Steal  not  Thou  my  Faith  Away, 116 

Mackay,  Charles. 

A Plea  for  our  Physical  Life, 60 

Nature  and  her  Lover, 335 

Mason,  William.  (Born,  1725  ; died,  1797.) 

Epitaph  on  Mrs.  Mason, 211 

Macnisii,  Robert.  (Born,  1802  ; died,  1837.) 

My  Little  Sister, 119 

Milman,  Rev.  Henry  Hart. 

The  Belvidere  Apollo, 254 

Milnes,  R.  M. 

Blessings  Unobserved, 185 

Milton,  John.  (Born,  1608  ; died,  1674.) 

Lycidas,  a Monody, 161 

Strength  from  Above.  (From  “ Samson  Agonistes  ”),  . . . .176 

Temperance.  (From  “ Comus  ”), 243 

Spiritual  Population  of  the  Universe, 248 

Eden,  Description  of.  (From  ‘‘Paradise  Lost  ”), 281 

Montgomery,  James.  (Born,  1771.) 

Evening  Time, 61 

Lift  up  Thine  Eyes,  Afflicted  Soul, 190 

The  Crucifixion, 302 

Moore,  Thomas.  (Born,  1780  ; died,  1852.) 

The  Flight  of  Faith, 158 

My  Birth-day, 167 

Morris,  George  P. 

The  Leap  for  Life, 311 

Norton;  Mrs.  Caroline. 

The  Child  of  Earth, 121 

Osgood,  Mrs.  Frances  S.  (Born,  1812  ; died,  1850.) 

The  Author’s  Last  Verses, 108 

Peabody,  William  B.  0.  (Born,  1799  ; died,  1847.) 

The  Disembodied  Spirit, 284 

Percival,  James  G. 

To  Seneca  Lake, 40 

May.  (Illustrated), 323 

Pope,  Alexander.  (Born,  1688  ; died,  1744.) 

Blessing  of  a Concealed  Future, 160 

Rhyme  not  Poetry,  278 

The  Dying  Christian  to  his  Soul, 334 

Praed,  Winthrop  Mackworth.  (Born,  1802  ; died,  1839.) 

My  Little  Cousins, 28 

Hope  and  Love, 68 

Prentice,  George  D. 

Signals  of  Liberty, 120 

Randolph,  Thomas.  (Born,  1605  ; died,  1634.) 

Riches, 239 

B 


XVIII 


INDEX  OF  AUTHORS. 


Roscoe,  William.  (Born,  17C5  ; died,  1831.) 

On  Parting  with  my  Books, 297 

Salis,  Johann  Gandenz  Von.  (Born,  1702  ; died,  1834.) 

Cheerfulness.  (From  the  German  of), 22G 

Schiller,  Johann  Christoph  Friedrich.  (B.,  1759  ; d.,  1805.) 

The  Worth  of  Woman.  (From  the  German  of  ), 205 

Hope.  (From  the  German  of), 214 

Scott,  Sir  Walter.  (Born,  1771  ; died,  1832.) 

Coronach,  103 

Hymn  of  the  Hebrew  Maid, 123 

Helvellyn, 129 

The  Young  Lochinvar, 308 

Shakspeare,  William.  (Born,  1504  ; died,  1010.) 

Moonlight.  (From  “ The  Merchant  of  Venice  ”), 176 

Solitude.  (From  “ As  You  Like  It  ”), 202 

Shelley,  Percy  Bysshe.  (Born,  1792  ; died,  1822.) 

Spirit  of  Delight, 191 

Sigourney,  Mrs.  L.  H. 

Give  Prayers  : the  Evening  hath  Begun, 92 

Smith,  Horace.  (Born,  1779  ; died,  1849.) 

Moral  Alchemy, 31 

The  First  of  March, 05 

Hymn  to  the  Flowers.  (Illustrated),  88 

Smith,  Seba. 

The  Mother  and  Child.  (Illustrated), 137 

Southey,  Robert.  \Born,  1774  ; died,  1843.) 

The  Dead  Friend, 45 

Imitated  from  the  Persian, ‘ 117 

The  Old  Man’s  Comforts, 154 

The  Holly-tree, 189 

Books.  (Illustrated), 296 

Immortality  of  Love.  (From  “ The  Curse  of  Kehama  ”),  . . 297 
Southey,  Mrs.  Caroline  Bowles. 

Autumn  Flowers, 91 

To  Little  Mary, 170 

There  is  a Tongue  in  Every  Leaf, 261 

The  Child’s  Warning, 318 

Spencer,  William  Robert.  (Born,  1770  ; died,  1834.) 

Too  Late  I Staid  ; Forgive  the  Crime, 155 

Spenser,  Edmund.  (Born,  1553  ; died,  1598.') 

The  Ministry  of  Angels  (From  “The  Faery  Queene  ”),  ...  32 
Sprague  Charles. 

I See  Thee  Still, 30 

Sterling,  John.  (Born,  1806  ; died,  1844.) 

Prose  and  Song, 223 

Hymn  of  a Hermit, 298 

Street,  Alfred  B. 

An  American  Forest  Spring, 285 

Swain,  Charles. 

The  Child  and  the  Angels, 49 

Taylor,  Jane.  (Born,  1783  ; died,  1823.) 

On  the  Death  of  an  Infant, 198 


INDEX  OF  AUTHORS. 


XIX 


Tennyson,  Alfred. 

The  Deserted  House, 151 

The  Golden  Year, 225 

The  Bugle  Song, 283 

Thomson,  James.  (Born,  1700  ; died,  1748.) 

Summer  Heat.  (From  “ The  Seasons  ”), 98 

Independence.  (From  ‘‘The  Castle  of  Indolence”),  ....  211 

Toplady,  Augustus  Montague.  (Born,  1740  ; died,  1778.) 

The  Believer’s  Triumph  in  Death, 309 

Townshend,  Rev.  Chauncy  Hare. 

Sermons  in  Sonnets  (six),  70 

On  Poetry, 90 

Summer  Evening  by  the  Sea, 197 

An  Evening  Thought, 318 

Tucker,  St.  George.  (Died,  1828.) 

Days  of  my  Youth,  ye  have  Glided  Away, 79 

Vaughan,  Henry.  (Born,  1621  ; died,  1695.) 

Glimpses  of  Future  Life, 170 

Early  Rising  and  Prayer, 264 

Waller,  Edmund.  (Born,  1603  ; died,  1687.) 

The  Tranquil  Mind, 154 

White,  J.  Blanco. 

Sonnet  to  Night, 290 

Whittier,  John  G. 

A Dream  of  Summer, 77 

April, 118 

Willis,  N.  P. 

Human  Love, 238 

Wilson,  John  (Professor). 

Hymn  for  One  Departed, 145 

The  Evening  Cloud, 202 

Address  to  a Wild  Deer, 272 

Immortal  Hopes, 320 

Winslow,  Harriet. 

Why  thus  Longing  1 135 

The  Kingdom  of  God, 228 

Wither,  George.  (Born,  1588  ; died,  1667.) 

Prison  Consolations  of  the  Muse, 22 

The  Marigold, 258 

Wolfe,  Rev.  Charles.  (Born,  1791  ; died,  1823.) 

If  I had  Thought  Thou  Could’st  have  Died, 324 

Woodworth,  Samuel. 

The  Old  Oaken  Bucket,  140 

WOEDSW'ORTH,  WiLLiAM.  (Bom,  1770  ; died,  1850.) 

Friendship, .34 

Character  of  the  Happy  Warrior, 57 

Ode  to  Duty, 96 

The  Daffodils, 103 

She  was  a Phantom  of  Delight, 109 

Adoration  amid  Natural  Scenes, 114 

The  Sonnet, 230 

Lines  written  in  Early  Spring,- 277 


XX 


INDEX  OF  AUTHORS. 


The  Moral  Law, 295 

Nature’s  Ministrations,' 317 

Autumn, 333 

WoTTON,  Sir  IIknry.  (Born,  15G8  ; died,  1G39.) 

Character  of  a Happy  Life, 175 

ANONYMOUS. 

The  Sabbath  Sunset.  (Illustrated), 21 

Summer  Longings, 33 

Never  Despair, 36 

God  is  Here.  (Illustrated), 42 

Not  to  Myself  Alone, 51 

We  Joy  that  Thou  art  Free, 62 

The  Light-house.  (Illustrated), 67 

The  Three  Homes, 74 

True  Philosophy, 79 

Beauty,  Wit  and  Gold.  (Illustrated), 126 

0 ! there  is  a Dream  of  Early  Youth, 144 

The  Servian  Youth  to  a Traveller, 166 

From  the  Arabic, 183 

Of  a Contented  Mind.  (Written  in  the  sixteenth  century), ....  186 

Forgiveness, 201 

A Lesson  for  Future  Life, 204 

Castles  in  the  Air, 219 

Songs  of  Being  : the  Birth,  the  Death, 221,  222 

Happiest  Days, 232 

Stanzas, 252 

Hymn  to  the  Stars, 259 

Occasion.  (From  the  Italian), 293 

Hope’s  Brighter  Shore, 294 

Boat-song, 301 

Far  Out  at  Sea, 312 


SELECTIONS  IN  POETEY 


THE  SABBATH  SUNSET. 

Behind  that  western  hill 
How  bright  the  sun  declines, 

As  over  city,  lake  and  plain, 

Its  parting  radiance  shines  ! 

The  clouds  above  its  bed 
In  purple  glory  wait. 

As  if  they  were  the  open  bars 
Of  Heaven’s  resplendent  gate. 

How  all  things  whisper  “ peace,” 
From  meadow,  stream,  and  hill ! 

The  patient  kine  reposing  stand. 
The  very  leaves  are  still. 


22 


SELECTIONS  IN  POETRY. 


A moment,  and  the  sun, 

Beneath  whose  crimson  glow 
Such  beauty  and  delight  are  shed, 
Shall  sink  that  hill  below. 

Yet  all  around  his  track 

The  sky  shall  long  be  bright, 
And  not  a cloud  above  his  couch 
Shall  hang  unbathed  in  light. 

Thus  shall  the  Christian  die ; 

So  bright  his  smile  appear. 
That  Grief  itself  shall  be  illumed, 
And  Love  shall  cast  out  fear. 


PRISON  CONSOLATIONS  OF  THE  MUSE. 

She  doth  tell  me  where  to  borrow 
Comfort  in  the  midst  of  sorrow ; 
Makes  the  desolatest  place 
To  her  presence  be  a grace. 

And  the  blackest  discontents 
Be  her  fairest  ornaments. 

In  my  former  days  of  bliss, 

Her  divine  skill  taught  me  this : 

That  from  everything  I saw 
I could  some  invention  draw, 

And  raise  pleasure  to  her  height 
Through  the  meanest  object’s  sight. 
By  the  murmur  of  a spring. 

Or  the  least  bough’s  rustleing,  — 

By  a daisy  whose  leaves  spread. 

Shut  when  Titan  goes  to  bed,  — 


PRISON  CONSOLATIONS  OF  THE  MUSE. 


23 


Or  a shady  bush  or  tree,  — 

She  could  more  infuse  in  me 
Than  all  Nature’s  beauties  can 
In  some  other  wiser  man  ! 

By  her  help,  I also  now 

Make  this  churlish  place  allow 

Some  things  that  may  sweeten  gladness, 

In  the  very  gall  of  sadness. 

The  dull  loneness,  the  black  shade. 

That  these  hanging  vaults  have  made ; 

The  strange  music  of  the  waves, 

Beating  on  these  hollow  caves  ; 

This  black  den  which  rocks  emboss. 
Overgrown  with  eldest  moss  ; 

The  rude  portals  that  give  light 
More  to  terror  than  delight ; 

This  my  chamber  of  neglect. 

Walled  about  with  disrespect ; 

From  all  these,  and  this  dull  air, 

A fit  object  of  despair. 

She  hath  taught  me,  by  her  might. 

To  draw  comfort  and  delight.  — 

Therefore,  thou  best  earthly  bliss, 

I will  cherish  thee  for  this. 

Poesy,  thou  sweet’st  content 
That  ere  Heaven  to  mortals  lent ! 

Though  they  as  a trifle  leave  thee. 

Whose  dull  thoughts  cannot  conceive  thee ; 
Though  thou  be  to  them  a scorn. 

That  to  naught  but  earth  are  born  ; 

Let  my  life  no  longer  be 
Than  I am  in  love  with  thee. 


24 


SELECTIONS  IN  POETRY. 


Though  our  wise  ones  call  it  madness, 

Let  me  never  taste  of  gladness, 

If  I love  not  thy  madd’st  fits 
Above  all  their  greatest  wits. 

And  though  some,  too  seeming  holy. 

Do  account  thy  raptures  folly. 

Thou  dost  teach  me  to  contemn 
What  makes  knaves  and  fools  of  them. 

WITHER. 


FANCY. 

Fancy ’s  the  wealth  of  wealth,  the  toiler’s  hope, 

The  poor  man’s  piecer-out ; the  art  of  nature, 
Painting  her  landscapes  twice ; the  spirit  of  fact, 

As  matter  is  the  body  ; the  pure  gift 
Of  Heaven  to  poet  and  to  child ; which  he 
Who  retains  most  in  manhood,  being  a man 
In  all  things  fitting  else,  is  most  a man ; 

Because  he  wants  no  human  faculty. 

Nor  loses  one  sweet  taste  of  the  sweet  world. 

LEIGH  HUNT. 


EPISTLE  TO  THE  COUNTESS  OF  CUMBERLAND. 

The  following  was  esteemed  by  Wordsworth  one  of  the  finest  poems  in  the 
language ; 

He  that  of  such  a height  hath  built  his  mind. 

And  reared  the  dwelling  of  his  thoughts  so  strong, 

As  neither  fear  nor  hope  can  shake  the  frame 
Of  his  resolved  powers,  — nor  all  the  wind 
Of  vanity  or  malice  pierce  to  wrong 
His  settled  peace,  or  to  disturb  the  same,  — 

What  a fair  seat  hath  he,  from  whence  he  may 
The  boundless  wastes  and  wilds  of  man  survey ! 


EPISTLE  TO  THE  COUNTESS  OF  CUMBERLAND. 


25 


And  with  how  free  an  eye  doth  he  look  down 
Upon  these  lower  regions  of  turmoil, 

Where  all  the  storms  of  passions  mainly  beat 
On  flesh  and  blood  ; where  honor,  power,  renown, 
Are  only  gay  afflictions,  golden  toil ; 

Where  greatness  stands  upon  as  feeble  feet 
As  frailty  doth ; and  only  great  doth  seem 
To  little  minds,  who  do  it  so  esteem ! 

He  looks  upon  the  mightiest  monarch’s  wars 
But  only  as  on  stately  robberies. 

Where  evermore  the  fortune  that  prevails 
Must  be  the  right : the  ill-succeeding  mars 
The  fairest  and  the  best-faced  enterprise. 

Great  pirate  Pompey  lesser  pirates  quails : 

Justice  he  sees  (as  if  seduced)  still 

Conspires  with  power,  whose  cause  must  not  be  ill. 

He  sees  the  face  of  right  t’  appear  as  manifold 
As  are  the  passions  of  uncertain  man. 

Who  puts  it  in  all  colors,  all  attires. 

To  serve  his  ends,  and  make  his  courses  hold. 

He  sees  that,  let  deceit  work  what  it  can. 

Plot  and  contrive  base  ways  to  high  desires. 

That  the  all-guiding  Providence  doth  yet 
All  disappoint,  and  mocks  this  smoke  of  wit. 

Nor  is  he  moved  with  all  the  thunder-cracks 
Of  tyrants’  threats,  or  with  the  surly  brow 
Of  Power,  that  proudly  sits  on  others’  crimes,  ■ 
Charged  with  more  crying  sins  than  those  he  checks. 
The  storms  of  sad  confusion,  that  may  grow 
Up  in  the  present  for  the  coming  times, 

Appal  not  him ; that  hath  no  side  at  all. 

But  of  himself,  and  knows  the  worst  can  fall. 

2 


20 


SELECTIONS  IN  POETRY. 


Although  his  heart  (so  near  allied  to  earth) 
Cannot  but  pity  the  perplexM  state 
Of  troublous  and  distressed  mortality, 

That  thus  make  way  unto  the  ugly  birth 
Of  their  own  sorrows,  and  do  still  beget 
Affliction  upon  imbecility. 

Yet,  seeing  thus  the  course  of  things  must  run, 
lie  looks  thereon  not  strange,  but  as  fore-done. 

And  whilst  distraught  ambition  compasses. 

And  is  encompassed ; whilst  as  craft  deceives. 

And  is  deceived ; whilst  man  doth  ransack  man. 
And  builds  on  blood,  and  rises  by  distress. 

And  the  inheritance  of  desolation  leaves 
To  great  expecting  hopes,  he  looks  thereon, 

As  from  the  shore  of  peace,  with  unwet  eye. 

And  bears  no  venture  in  impiety. 

DANIEL. 


HYMN. 

How  are  thy  servants  blest,  0 Lord ! 

How  sure  is  their  defence  ! 

Eternal  wisdom  is  their  guide, 

Their  help  Omnipotence. 

In  foreign  realms  and  lands  remote. 
Supported  by  thy  care. 

Through  burning  climes  I passed  unhurt. 
And  breathed  the  tainted  air. 

Thy  mercy  sweetened  every  toil, 

Made  every  region  please ; 

The  hoary  Alpine  hills  it  warmed. 

And  smoothed  the  Tyrrhene  seas. 


HYMN. 


27 


Think,  0 my  soul ! devoutly  think, 

How,  with  affrighted  eyes. 

Thou  saw’st  the  wide-extended  deep 
In  all  its  horrors  rise. 

Confusion  dwelt  in  every  face. 

And  fear  in  every  heart ; 

When  waves  on  waves,  and  gulfs  on  gulfs, 
O’ercame  the  pilot’s  art. 

Yet  then  from  all  my  griefs,  0 Lord, 

Thy  mercy  set  me  free. 

Whilst  in  the  confidence  of  prayer 
My  faith  took  hold  on  thee. 

For,  though  in  dreadful  whirls  we  hung 
High  on  the  broken  wave, 

I knew  thou  wert  not  slow  to  'hear. 

Nor  impotent  to  save. 

The  storm  was  laid,  the  winds  retired, 
Obedient  to  thy  will ; 

The  sea,  that  roared  at  thy  command, 

At  thy  command  was  still. 

In  midst  of  dangers,  fears  and  death, 

Thy  goodness  I ’ll  adore. 

And  praise  thee  for  thy  mercies  past, 

And  humbly  hope  for  more. 

My  life,  if  thou  preserv’st  my  life, 

Thy  sacrifice  shall  be  ; 

And  death,  if  death  must  be  my  doom, 
Shall  join  my  soul  to  thee. 


ADDISON. 


SELECTIONS  IN  POETRY. 


IMY  LITTLE  COUSINS. 

E voi  ridete  ? — Certo  Ridiamo.  — Cosi  fan  tutte. 

Laugh  on,  fair  cousins,  for  to  you 
All  life  is  joyous  yet ; 

Your  hearts  have  all  things  to  pursue. 
And  nothing  to  regret ; 

And  every  flower  to  you  is  fair. 

And  every  month  is  IMay ; 

You  ’ve  not  been  introduced  to  Care,  — 
Laugh  on,  laugh  on,  to-day ! 

Old  Time  will  fling  his  clouds  ere  long 
Upon  those  sunny  eyes ; 

The  voice,  whose  every  word  is  song. 

Will  set  itself  to  sighs  : 

Your  quiet  slumbers,  — hopes  and  fears 
Will  chase  their  rest  away ; 

To-morrow  you  ’ll  be  shedding  tears,  — 
Laugh  on,  laugh  on,  to-day ! 

0,  yes ; if  any  truth  is  found 

In  the  dull  schoolman’s  theme,  — 

If  friendship  is  an  empty  sound. 

And  love  an  idle  dream,  — 

If  mirth,  youth’s  playmate,  feels  fatigue 
Too  soon  on  life’s  long  way. 

At  least  he  ’ll  run  with  you  a league,  — 
Laugh  on,  laugh  on,  to-day  ! 

Perhaps  your  eyes  may  grow  more  bright 
As  childhood’s  hues  depart ; 

You  may  be  lovelier  to  the  sight. 

And  dearer  to  the  heart ; 


ADMONITION. 


29 


You  may  be  sinless  still,  and  see 
This  earth  still  green  and  gay ; 

But  what  you  are  you  will  not  be,  — 

Laugh  on,  laugh  on,  to-day  ! 

O’er  me  have  many  winters  crept. 

With  less  of  grief  than  joy ; 

But  I have  learned,  and  toiled,  and  wept,  — 

I am  no  more  a boy ! 

I ’ve  never  had  the  gout,  ’t  is  true. 

My  hair  is  hardly  gray  ; 

But  now  I cannot  laugh  like  you,  — 

Laugh  on,  laugh  on,  to-day ! 

I used  to  have  as  glad  a face. 

As  shadowless  a brow  ; 

I once  could  run  as  blithe  a race 
As  you  are  running  now  ; 

But  never  mind  how  I behave,  • — 

Don’t  interrupt  your  play. 

And,  though  I look  so  very  grave. 

Laugh  on,  laugh  on,  to-day  ! 

PRAED. 


ADMONITION. 

0 Leolyn,  be  obstinately  just ; 

Indulge  no  passion  and  deceive  no  trust. 

Let  never  man  be  bold  enough  to  say. 

Thus,  and  no  further,  shall  my  passion  stray ; 

The  first  crime  past  compels  us  into  more. 

And  guilt  grows that  was  but  choice  before. 

AARON  HILL. 


30 


SELECTIONS  IN  POETRY. 


I SEE  THEE  STILL. 

“ I rocked  her  in  the  cradle, 

And  laid  her  in  the  tomb.  She  was  the  youngest. 

What  fireside  circle  hath  not  felt  the  charm 
Of  that  sweet  tie  ? The  youngest  ne’er  gi-ow  old,  — 

The  fond  endearments  of  our  earlier  days 
We  keep  alive  in  them  ; and  when  they  die, 

Our  youthful  joys  we  bury  with  them.” 

I SEE  thee  still ! 

Kemembrance,  faithful  to  her  trust, 

Calls  thee  in  beauty  from  the  dust ; 

Thou  comest  in  the  morning  light, 

Thou  ’rt  with  me  through  the  gloomy  night ; 
In  dreams  I meet  thee  as  of  old ; 

Then  thy  soft  arms  my  neck  enfold. 

And  thy  sweet  voice  is  in  my  ear ; 

In  every  scene  to  memory  dear 
I see  thee  still ! 

I see  thee  still. 

In  every  hallowed  token  round ; 

This  little  ring  thy  finger  bound, 

This  lock  of  hair  thy  forehead  shaded. 

This  silken  chain  by  thee  was  braided ; 

These  flowers,  all  withered  now,  like  thee. 
Sweet  sister,  thou  didst  cull  for  me  ; 

This  book  was  thine ; here  didst  thou  read  • 
This  picture  — ah,  yes  ! here,  indeed, 

I see  thee  still ! 

**  I see  thee  still ! 

Here  was  thy  summer  noon’s  retreat, 

Here  was  thy  favorite  fireside  seat ; 

This  was  thy  chamber,  — here,  each  day, 

I sat  and  watched  thy  sad  decay  ; 


MORAL  ALCHEMY. 


31 


Here,  on  this  bed,  thou  last  didst  lie  ; 

Here,  on  this  pillow  — thou  didst  die ! 

Dark  hour  ! once  more  its  woes  unfold ; 

As  then  I saw  thee,  pale  and  cold, 

I see  thee  still ! 

I see  thee  still ! 

Thou  art  not  in  the  grave  confined  — 

Death  cannot  claim  the  immortal  mind  ; 

Let  earth  close  o’er  its  sacred  trust, 

But  goodness  dies  not  in  the  dust ! 

Thee,  0 my  sister  ! ’t  is  not  thee 
Beneath  the  cofiin’s  lid  I see  ! 

Thou  to  a fairer  land  art  gone ; 

There,  let  me  hope,  my  journey  done, 

To  see  thee  still ! 

SPRAGUE. 


MORAL  ALCHEMY. 

From  Nature’s  magic  hand,  whose  touch  makes  sadness 
Eventual  gladness. 

The  reverent  moral  alchemist  may  learn 
The  art  to  turn 

Fate’s  roughest,  hardest,  most  forbidding  dross. 

Into  the  mental  gold  that  knows  not  change  or  loss. 

Lose  we  a valued  friend?  To  soothe  our  woe, 

Let  us  bestow 

On  those  who  still  survive  an  added  love ; 

So  shall  we  prove. 

Howe’er  the  dear  departed  we  deplore, 

In  friendship’s  sum  and  substance  no  diminished  store. 


32 


SELECTIONS  IN  POETRY. 


Lose  we  our  health  ? Now  may  we  fully  know 
What  thanks  we  owe 

For  our  sane  years,  perchance  of  lengthened  scope ; 

Now  does  our  hope 

Point  to  the  day  when  sickness  taking  flight 
Shalt  make  us  better  feel  health’s  exquisite  delight. 

In  losing  fortune  many  a lucky  elf 

Has  found  himself;  — 

As  all  our  moral  bitters  are  designed 
To  brace  the  mind, 

And  renovate  its  healthy  tone,  the  wise 
Their  sorest  trials  hail  as  blessings  in  disguise. 

There  is  no  gloom  on  earth,  for  God  above 
Chastens  in  love ; 

Transmuting  sorrows  into  golden  joy. 

Free  from  alloy ; 

His  dearest  attribute  is  still  to  bless. 

And  man’s  most  welcome  hymn  is  grateful  cheerfulness. 

HORACE  SMITH. 


THE  MINISTRY  OF  ANGELS. 

And  is  there  care  in  Heaven  ? And  is  there  love 
In  heavenly  spirits  to  these  creatures  base. 

That  may  compassion  of  their  evils  move  ? 

There  is : — else  much  more  wretched  were  the  case 
Of  men  than  beasts : but  0 ! the  exceeding  grace 
Of  highest  God,  that  loves  his  creatures  so. 

And  all  his  works  with  mercy  doth  embrace. 

That  blessed  angels  he  sends  to  and  fro. 

To  serve  to  wicked  man,  to  serve  His  wicked  foe ! 


SUMMER  LONGINGS. 


33 


How  oft  do  they  their  silver  bowers  leave, 

To  come  to  succor  us  that  succor  want ! 

How  oft  do  they  with  golden  pinions  cleave 
The  flitting  skies,  like  flying  pursuivant. 

Against  foul  flends  to  aid  us  militant ! 

They  for  us  fight,  they  watch  and  duly  ward, 

And  their  bright  squadrons  round  about  us  plant ; 

And  all  for  love  and  nothing  for  reward ; 

0,  why  should  heavenly  God  to  men  have  such  regard  ? 

SPENSER. 


SUMMER  LONGINGS. 

“ Cas  Mananas  floridas 
De  Abril  y Mayo.” — Calderon. 


Ah  ! my  heart  is  ever  waiting. 
Waiting  for  the  May ; 

Waiting  for  the  pleasant  rambles, 
Where  the  pleasant  hawthorn  bramble. 
With  the  woodbine  alternating, 

■ Scent  the  dewy  way. 

Ah ! my  heart  is  weary  waiting, 
Waiting  for  the  May. 

Ah ! my  heart  is  sick  with  longing, 
Longing  for  the  May ; 

Longing  to  escape  from  study. 

To  the  young  face  fair  and  ruddy. 

And  the  thousand  charms  belonging 
To  the  summer  day. 

Ah ! my  heart  is  sick  with  longing, 
Longing  for  the  May. 

2#  c 


34 


SELECTIONS  IN  POETRY. 


Ah  ! my  heart  is  sore  with  sighing, 
Sighing  for  the  May ; 

Sighing  for  the  sure  returning, 

When  the  summer  beams  are  burning, 
Hopes  and  flowers  that  dead  or  dying 
All  the  winter  lay. 

Ah ! my  heart  is  sore  with  sighing. 
Sighing  for  the  May. 

Ah  ! my  heart  is  pained  with  throbbing, 
Throbbing  for  the  May ; 

Throbbing  for  the  sea-side  billows, 

Or  the  water-wooing  willows. 

Where  in  laughing  and  in  sobbing 
Glide  the  streams  away. 

^ Ah ! my  heart,  my  heart  is  throbbing, 
Throbbing  for  the  May. 

Waiting,  sad,  dejected,  weary, 

Waiting  for  the  May, 

Spring  goes  by  with  wasted  warnings,  — 
Moonlit  evenings,  sunbright  mornings,  — 
Summer  comes,  yet  dark  and  dreary 
Life  still  ebbs  away  ; 

Man  is  ever  weary,  weary, 

Waiting  for  the  May. 


FRIENDSHIP. 

Small  service  is  true  service  while  it  lasts  ; 

Of  friends,  however  humble,  spurn  not  one ; 

The  daisy,  by  the  shadow  that  it  casts, 

Protects  the  lingering  dew-drop  from  the  sun. 

WORDSWORTH. 


ON  THE  DEATH  OF  THOMSON. 


35 


ON  THE  HEATH  OF  THOMSON. 

In  yonder  grave  a Druid  lies, 

Where  slowly  winds  the  stealing  wave ! 

The  year’s  best  sweets  shall  duteous  rise, 

To  deck  its  poet’s  sylvan  grave. 

In  yon  deep  bed  of  whispering  reeds 
His  airy  harp  shall  now  be  laid ; 

That  he,  whose  heart  in  sorrow  bleeds. 

May  love  through  life  the  soothing  shade. 

Then  maids  and  youths  shall  linger  here. 

And,  while  its  sounds  at  distance  swell. 

Shall  sadly  seem  in  Pity’s  ear 

To  hear  the  woodland  pilgrim’s  knell. 

Remembrance  oft  shall  haunt  the  shore 
When  Thames  in  summer  wreaths  is  drcst. 

And  oft  suspend  the  dashing  oar. 

To  bid  his  gentle  spirit  rest ! 

And  oft  as  ease  and  health  retire 
To  breezy  lawn,  or  forest  deep. 

The  friend  shall  view  yon  whitening  spire. 

And  ’mid  the  varied  landscape  weep. 

But  thou  who  own’st  that  earthly  bed. 

Ah ! what  will  every  dirge  avail  ? 

Or  tears  which  Love  and  Pity  shed. 

That  mourn  beneath  the  gliding  sail  ? 

Yet  lives  there  one  whose  heedless  eye 

Shall  scorn  thy  pale  shrine  glimmering  near  ? 

With  him,  sweet  bard,  may  fancy  die. 

And  joy  desert  the  blooming  year. 


86 


SELECTIONS  IN  POETRY. 


But  thou,  lorn  stream,  whose  sullen  tide 
No  sedge-crowned  sisters  now  attend. 

Now  waft  me  from  the  green  hill’s  side, 

Whose  cold  turf  hides  the  buried  friend. 

And  see,  the  fairy  valleys  fade,  — 

Dun  Night  has  veiled  the  solemn  view ! 

Yet  once  again,  dear  parted  shade, 

IMeek  Nature’s  child,  again  adieu ! 

The  genial  meads,  assigned  to  bless 
Thy  life,  shall  mourn  thy  early  doom ! 

There  hinds  and  shepherd-girls  shall  dress 
With  simple  hands  thy  rural  tomb. 

Long,  long,  thy  stone,  and  pointed  clay 
Shall  melt  the  musing  Briton’s  eyes ; 

“ 0 ! vales  and  wild  woods,”  shall  he  say, 

“ In  yonder  grave  your  Druid  lies ! ” 

COLLINS. 


NEVER  DESPAIR. 

The  opal-hued  and  many-perfumed  morn 
From  gloom  is  born ; 

From  out  the  sullen  depth  of  ebon  night 
The  stars  shed  light  ; 

Gems  in  the  rayless  caverns  of  the  earth 
Have  their  slow  birth ; 

From  wondrous  alchemy  of  winter  hours 
Come  summer  flowers ; 

The  bitter  waters  of  the  restless  main 
Give  gentle  rain; 

The  fading  bloom  and  dry  seed  bring  once  more 
The  year’s  fresh  store ; 


LOVE,  HOPE  AND  PATIENCE,  IN  EDUCATION. 


3, 


Just  sequences  of  clashing  tones  ajBford 
The  full  accord ; 

Through  weary  ages,  full  of  strife  and  ruth, 
Thought  reaches  truth ; 

Through  efforts  long  in  vain,  prophetic  need 
Begets  the  deed ; — 

Nerve,  then,  thy  soul  with  direst  need  to  cope ; 

Life’s  brightest  hope 
Lies  latent  ever  in  Fate’s  deadliest  lair. 

Never  despair  I 


LOVE,  HOPE  AND  PATIENCE,  IN  EDUCATION. 

O’er  wayward  childhood  would’st  thou  hold  firm  rule, 
And  sun  thee  in  the  light  of  happy  faces  ? 

Love,  Hope  and  Patience,  these  must  be  thy  graces, 
And  in  thine  own  heart  let  them  first  keep  school. 
For,  as  old  Atlas  on  his  broad  neck  places 
Heaven’s  starry  globe,  and  there  sustains  it,  so 
Do  these  upbear  the  little  world  below 
Of  Education,  — Patience,  Love  and  Hope. 

Methinks  I see  them  grouped  in  seemly  show. 

The  straitened  arms  upraised,  the  palms  aslope. 

And  robes  that,  touching  as  adown  they  flow. 
Distinctly  blend,  like  snow  embossed  in  snow. 

0,  part  them  never  ! If  Hope  prostrate  lie. 

Love,  too,  will  sink  and  die. 

But  Love  is  subtle,  and  doth  proof  derive 
From  her  own  life  that  Hope  is  yet  alive ; 

And,  bending  o’er  with  soul-transfusing  eyes, 

And  the  soft  murmurs  of  the  mother  dove. 


38 


SELECTIONS  IN  POETRY. 


Woos  back  the  fleeting  spirit,  and  half-supplies;  — 

Thus  Love  repays  to  Hope  what  Hope  first  gave  to  Love. 
Yet  haply  there  will  come  a weary  day, 

When,  overtasked  at  length. 

Both  Love  and  Hope  beneath  the  load  give  way. 

Then,  with  a statue’s  smile,  a statue’s  strength. 

Stands  the  mute  sister.  Patience,  nothing  loth, 

And,  both  supporting,  does  the  work  of  both. 

COLERIDGE. 


JAFFAPv. 

Jaffar,  the  Barmecide,  the  good  vizier. 

The  poor  man’s  hope,  the  friend  without  a peer, 

Jaffar  was  dead,  slain  by  a doom  unjust ; 

And  guilty  Haroun,  sullen  with  mistrust 
Of  what  the  good  and  e’en  the  bad  might  say. 

Ordained  that  no  man  living,  from  that  day. 

Should  dare  to  speak  his  name,  on  pain  of  death.  — 

All  Araby  and  Persia  held  their  breath. 

All  but  the  brave  Mondeer.  He,  proud  to  show 
How  far  for  love  a grateful  soul  could  go, 

And  facing  death  for  very  scorn  and  grief 
(For  his  great  heart  wanted  a great  relief), 

Stood  forth  in  Bagdad  daily,  in  the  square. 

Where  once  had  stood  a happy  house  ; and  there 
Harangued  the  tremblers  at  the  scimitar 
On  all  they  owed  to  the  divine  Jaffar. 

“ Bring  me  this  man ! ” the  caliph  cried.  The  man 
Was  brought,  was  gazed  upon.  The  mutes  began 
To  bind  his  arms.  “ Welcome,  brave  cords ! ” cried  he ; 
“ From  bonds  far  worse  Jaffar  delivered  me ; 


SUN  AND  SHOWER. 


39 


From  wants,  from  shames,  from  loveless  household  fears ; 
Made  a man’s  eyes  friends  with  delicious  tears  ; 

Restored  me,  loved  me,  put  me  on  a par 
With  his  great  self.  How  can  I pay  JaffM  ? ” 

HMoun,  who  felt  that  on  a soul  like  this 
The  mightiest  vengeance  could  but  fall  amiss, 

Now  deigned  to  smile,  as  one  great  lord  of  fate 
Might  smile  upon  another  half  as  great, 

And  said,  “ Let  worth  grow  frenzied,  if  it  will ; 

The  caliph’s  judgment  shall  be  master  still. 

Go ; and,  since  gifts  thus  move  thee,  take  this  gem, 

The  richest  in  the  Tartar’s  diadem. 

And  hold  the  giver  as  thou  deemest  fit.” 

“ Gifts ! ” cried  the  friend.  He  took ; and,  holding  it 
High  toward  the  heavens,  as  though  to  meet  his  star, 
Exclaimed,  “ This,  too,  I owe  to  thee,  JaflFar ! ” 

LEIGH  HUNT. 


SUN  AND  SHOWER. 

He  sendeth  sun,  he  sendeth  shower,  — 
Alike  they  ’re  needful  to  the  flower ; 

And  joys  and  tears  alike  are  sent 
To  give  the  soul  fit  nourishment. 

As  comes  to  me  or  cloud  or  sun, 

Father ! thy  will,  not  mine,  be  done. 

Can  loving  children  e’er  reprove 
With  murmurs  whom  they  trust  and  love  ? 
Creator,  I would  ever  be 
A trusting,  loving  child  to  thee ; 

As  comes  to  me  or  cloud  or  sun. 

Father ! thy  will,  not  mine,  be  done. 


40 


SELECTIONS  IN  POETRY. 


O,  ne’er  will  I at  life  repine ; 

Enough  that  thou  hast  made  it  mine. 

Where  falls  the  shadow  cold  of  death, 

I yet  will  sing  with  parting  breath, 

As  comes  to  me  or  shade  or  sun. 

Father  ! thy  will,  not  mine,  be  done. 

SARAH  FLOWER  ADAMS. 


TO  SENECA  LAKE. 

On  thy  fair  bosom,  silver  lake. 

The  wild  swan  spreads  his  snowy  sail. 

And  round  his  breast  the  ripples  break. 

As  down  he  bears  before  the  gale. 

On  thy  fair  bosom,  waveless  stream. 

The  dipping  paddle  echoes  far. 

And  flashes  in  the  moonlight  gleam. 

And  bright  reflects  the  polar  star. 

The  waves  along  thy  pebbly  shore. 

As  blows  the  north  wind,  heave  their  foam, 
And  curl  around  the  dashing  oar. 

As  late  the  boatman  hies  him  home. 

How  sweet,  at  set  of  sun,  to  view' 

Thy  golden  mirror  spreading  wide. 

And  see  the  mist  of  mantling  blue 

Float  round  the  distant  mountain’s  side ! 

At  midnight  hour,  as  shines  the  moon, 

A sheet  of  silver  spreads  below. 

And  swift  she  cuts,  at  highest  noon, 

Light  clouds,  like  wreaths  of  purest  snow. 


THE  CALL  OF  SAMUEL. 


41 


On  thy  fair  bosom,  silver  lake, 

0 ! I could  ever  sweep  the  oar. 

When  early  birds  at  morning  wake, 

And  evening  tells  us  toil  is  o’er. 

PERCIVAL. 


THE  CALL  OF  SAMUEL. 


ISAM.  3:  1—10. 

In  Israel’s  fane,  by  silent  night. 

The  lamp  of  God  was  burning  bright ; 

And  there,  by  viewless  angels  kept, 

Samuel  the  child  securely  slept. 

A voice  unknown  the  stillness  broke  : 

“ Samuel ! ” it  called,  and  thrice  it  spoke ; 
He  rose ; he  asked  whence  came  the  word  ? 
From  Eli  ? — no ; it  was  the  Lord. 

Thus  early  called  to  serve  his  God, 

In  paths  of  righteousness  he  trod ; 
Prophetic  visions  fired  his  breast. 

And  all  the  chosen  tribes  were  blessed. 

Speak,  Lord ! and,  from  our  earliest  days. 
Incline  our  hearts  to  love  thy  ways. 

Thy  wakening  voice  hath  reached  our  ear ; 
Speak,  Lord,  to  us ; thy  servants  hear. 

And  ye  who  know  the  Saviour’s  love. 

And  richly  all  his  mercies  prove. 

Your  timely,  friendly  aid  afibrd. 

That  we  may  early  serve  the  liord. 


CAWOOD. 


42 


SELECTIONS  IN  POETRY. 


GOD  IS  HERE. 

Kneel,  my  child,  for  God  is  here ! 
Bend  in  love,  but  not  in  fear ; 

Kneel  before  Him  now  in  prayer ; 
Thank  Him  for  his  constant  care ; 
Praise  Him  for  his  bounties  shed 
Every  moment  on  thy  head ; 

Ask  for  light  to  know  his  will ; 

Ask  for  love  thy  heart  to  fill ; 

Ask  for  faith  to  bear  thee  on. 

Through  the  might  of  Christ,  his  Son ; 
Ask  his  Spirit  still  to  guide  thee 
Through  the  ills  that  may  betide  thee ; 
Ask  for  peace,  to  lull  to  rest 
Every  tumult  of  thy  breast ; 

Ask  in  awe,  but  not  in  fear ; 

Kneel,  my  child,  for  God  is  here  ! 


PRAYERS  FOR  A CHILD. 


43 


PRAYERS  FOR  A CHILD. 

MORNING. 

I THANK  tliee,  Lord,  for  quiet  rest, 

And  for  thy  care  of  me ; 

0,  let  me  through  this  day  be  blest. 

And  kept  from  harm  by  thee  ! 

0,  let  me  love  thee ! Kind  thou  art 
To  children  such  as  I ; 

Give  me  a gentle,  holy  heart, 

Be  thou  my  friend  on  high ! 

Help  me  to  please  my  parents  dear. 

And  do  whate’er  they  tell ; 

Bless  all  my  friends,  both  far  and  near, 

And  keep  them  safe  and  well ! 

EVENING. 

J esus,  heavenly  Shepherd,  hear  me,  — 

Bless  thy  little  lamb  to-night ; 

Through  the  darkness  be  thou  near  me. 

Watch  my  sleep  till  morning  light ! 

All  this  day  thy  hand  has  led  me. 

And  I thank  thee  for  thy  care ; 

Thou  hast  warmed,  and  fed,  and  clothed  me,  — 
Listen  to  my  evening  prayer ! 

May  my  sins  be  all  forgiven ; 

Bless  the  friends  I love  so  well ; 

When  I die,  take  me  to  heaven. 

Happy  there  with  thee  to  dwell ! 


LADY  DUNCAN. 


44 


SELECTIONS  IN  POETRY. 


IT  IS  TOLD  ME  I MUST  DIE. 

Richard  Langhorne,  a lawyer,  was  unjustly  condemned,  and  put  to  death  as  a 
traitor,  in  the  reign  of  Charles  II.  Just  before  his  execution,  he  wrote  the  fol- 
lowing exquisite  and  remarkable  poem.  In  the  language  of  the  Quarterly 
Review,  “ A poem  it  must  be  called,  though  it  is  not  in  verse.  Perhaps  there  is 
not  in  this  or  any  other  language  a poem  which  appears  to  have  flowed  so 
entirely  from  the  heart.” 

It  is  told  me  I must  die  : 

0,  happy  news  I 
Be  glad,  0 my  soul, 

And  rejoice  in  Jesus,  thy  Saviour ! 

If  he  intended  thy  perdition. 

Would  he  have  laid  down  his  life  for  thee  ? 

Would  he  have  called  thee  with  so  much  love, 

And  illmninated  thee  with  the  light  of  the  Spirit  ? 

Would  he  have  given  thee  his  cross. 

And  given  thee  shoulders  to  bear  it  with  patience  ? 

It  is  told  me  I must  die : 

0,  happy  news ! 

Come  on,  my  dearest  soul ; 

Behold,  thy  Jesus  calls  thee ! 

He  prayed  for  thee  upon  his  cross ; 

There  he  extended  his  arms  to  receive  thee ; 

There  he  bowed  down  his  head  to  kiss  thee ; 

There  he  opened  his  heart  to  give  thee  entrance ; 

There  he  gave  up  his  life  to  purchase  life  for  thee. 

It  is  told  me  I must  die : 

0,  what  happiness ! 

I am  going 

To  the  place  of  my  rest ; 

To  the  land  of  the  living ; 

To  the  haven  of  security ; 


THE  DEAD  FRIEND. 


45 


To  the  kingdom  of  peace  ; 

To  the  palace  of  my  God  ; 

To  the  nuptials  of  the  Lamb ; 

To  sit  at  the  table  of  my  King ; 

To  feed  on  the  bread  of  angels ; 

To  see  what  no  eye  hath  seen ; 

To  hear  what  no  ear  hath  heard  ; 

To  enjoy  what  the  heart  of  man  cannot  comprehend. 

0,  my  Father ! 

0,  thou  best  of  all  Fathers, 

Have  pity  on  the  most  wretched  of  all  thy  children ! 

I was  lost,  but  by  thy  mercy  found ; 

I was  dead,  but  by  thy  grace  am  now  raised  again  ; 
I was  gone  astray  after  vanity. 

But  I am  now  ready  to  appear  before  thee. 

0,  my  Father  ! 

Come,  now,  in  mercy,  and  receive  thy  child ! 

G ive  him  thy  kiss  of  peace ; 

Remit  unto  him  all  his  sins  ; 

Clothe  him  with  thy  nuptial  robe ; 

Permit  him  to  have  a place  at  thy  feast ; 
And  forgive  all  those  who  are  guilty  of  his  death. 


THE  HEAD  FRIEND. 

Not  to  the  grave,  not  to  the  grave,  my  soul. 
Descend  to  contemplate 
The  form  that  once  was  dear ! 

The  spirit  is  not  there 
Which  kindled  that  dead  eye. 

Which  throbbed  in  that  cold  heart. 


46 


SELECTIONS  IN  POETRY. 


Which  in  that  motionless  hand 
Hath  met  thy  friendly  grasp. 

The  spirit  is  not  there ! 

It  is  but  lifeless,  perishable  flesh 
That  moulders  in  the  grave ; 

Earth,  air,  and  water’s  ministering  particles. 

Now  to  the  elements 
Eesolved,  their  uses  done. 

Not  to  the  grave,  not  to  the  grave,  my  soul. 
Follow  thy  friend  beloved  ; 

The  spirit  is  not  there ! 

Often  together  have  we  talked  of  death ; 

How  sweet  it  were  to  see 
All  doubtful  things  made  clear ! 

How  sweet  it  were  with  powers 
Such  as  the  cherubim 
To  view  the  depth  of  heaven  ! 

0,  Edmund  ! thou  hast  first 
Begun  the  travel  of  eternity ! 

I look  upon  the  stars. 

And  think  that  thou  art  there, 
Unfettered  as  the  thought  that  follows  thee. 

And  we  have  often  said  how  sweet  it  were, 

With  unseen  ministry  of  angel  power. 

To  watch  the  friends  we  loved. 

Edmund ! we  did  not  err ! 

Sure  I have  felt  thy  presence ! Thou  hast  given 
A birth  to  holy  thought. 

Hast  kept  me  from  the  world  unstained  and  pure. 
Edmuud ! we  did  not  err ! 

Our  best  affections  here. 

They  are  not  like  the  toys  of  infancy ; 


THE  SABBATH  MORNING. 


47 


The  soul  outgrows  them  not ; 

We  do  not  cast  them  off ; 

0,  if  it  could  be  so, 

It  were,  indeed,  a dreadful  thing  to  die ! 

Not  to  the  grave,  not  to  the  grave,  my  soul. 
Follow  thy  friend  beloved  ! 

But  in  the  lonely  hour. 

But  in  the  evening  walk. 

Think  that  he  companies  thy  solitude ; 

Think  that  he  holds  with  thee 
Mysterious  intercourse ; 

And,  though  remembrance  wake  a tear. 
There  will  be  joy  in  grief. 

SOUTHEY. 


THE  SABBATH  MORNING. 

With  silent  awe  I hail  the  sacred  morn. 

That  slowly  wakes  while  all  the  fields  are  still ! 

A soothing  calm  on  every  breeze  is  borne ; 

A graver  murmur  gurgles  from  the  rill. 

And  echo  answers  softer  from  the  hill ; 

And  softer  sings  the  linnet  from  the  thorn ; 

The  skylark  warbles  in  a tone  less  shrill. 

Hail,  light  serene ! hail,  sacred  Sabbath  morn  ! 

The  rooks  float  silent  by,  in  airy  drove ; 

The  sun  a placid  yellow  lustre  throws ; 

The  gales,  that  lately  sighed  along  the  grove. 

Have  hushed  their  downy  wings  in  dead  repose ; 
The  hovering  rack  of  clouds  forgets  to  move  : 

So  smiled  the  day  when  the  first  morn  arose ! 

LEYDEN. 


48 


SELECTIONS  IN  POETRY. 


AFFECTATION. 

Why,  Affectation,  why  this  mock  grimace  ? 

Go,  silly  thing,  and  hide  that  simpering  face ! 

Thy  lisping  prattle,  and  thy  mincing  gait. 

All  thy  false  mimic  fooleries,  I hate ; 

For  thou  art  Folly’s  counterfeit,  and  she 
Who  is  right  foolish  hath  the  better  plea ; 

Nature’s  true  idiot  I prefer  to  thee. 

Why  that  soft  languish  ? Why  that  drawling  tone  ? 
Art  sick  ? art  sleepy  ? — Get  thee  hence,  — begone  ! 
I laugh  at  all  those  pretty  baby  tears. 

Those  flutterings,  faintings,  and  unreal  fears. 

Can  they  deceive  us  ? Can  such  mummeries  move. 
Touch  us  with  pity,  or  inspire  with  love  ? 

No,  Affectation,  vain  is  all  thy  art ; 

Those  eyes  may  wander  over  every  part, 

They  ’ll  never  find  their  passage  to  the  heart. 

CUMBERLAND. 

A THOUGHT  SUGGESTED  BY  THE  NEW  YEAR. 

The  more  we  live,  more  brief  appear 
Our  life’s  succeeding  stages ; 

A day  to  childhood  seems  a year. 

And  years  like  passing  ages. 

The  gladsome  current  of  our  youth. 

Ere  passion  yet  disorders. 

Steals,  lingering,  like  a river  smooth 
Along  its  grassy  borders. 

But  as  the  care-worn  cheek  grows  wan. 

And  sorrow’s  shafts  fly  thicker,  ^ 


THE  CHILD  AND  THE  ANGELS. 


49 


Ye  stars,  that  measure  life  to  man, 

Why  seem  your  courses  quicker  ? 

When  joys  have  lost  their  bloom  and  breath. 
And  life  itself  is  vapid. 

Why,  as  we  reach  the  Falls  of  Death, 

Feel  we  its  tide  more  rapid  ? 

It  may  be  strange  — yet  who  would  change 
Time’s  course  to  slower  speeding. 

When  one  by  one  our  friends  have  gone, 
And  left  our  bosoms  bleeding  ? 

Heaven  gives  our  years  of  fading  strength 
Indemnifying  fleetness ; 

And  those  of  j^outh  a seeming  length. 
Proportioned  to  their  sweetness. 

CAMPBELL. 


THE  CIHLD  AND  THE  ANGELS. 

The  Sabbath  sun  was  setting  low. 

Amidst  the  clouds  of  even ; 

“ Our  Father,”  breathed  a voice  below, 

‘‘  Father,  who  art  in  heaven.” 

Beyond  the  earth,  beyond  the  clouds, 

Those  infant  words  were  given ; 

“ Our  Father,”  angels  sang  aloud, 

“ Father,  who  art  in  heaven.” 

“ Thy  kingdom  come,”  still  from  the  ground 
That  child-like  voice  did  pray ; 

“ Thy  kingdom  come,”  God’s  hosts  resound. 
Far  up  the  starry  way. 

5 


D 


50 


SELECTIONS  IN  POETRY. 


“ Thy  will  be  done,”  with  little  tongue. 
That  lisping  love  implores ; 

“Thy  will  be  done,”  the  angelic  throng, 
Sing  from  the  heavenly  shores. 

“ Forever,”  still  those  lips  repeat 
Their  closing  evening  prayer  ; 

“ Forever  ” floats  in  music  sweet 
High  midst  the  angels  there. 

CHARLES  SWAIN. 


LINES  IN  A MOTHER’S  BIBLE. 

Hemember,  love,  who  gave  thee  this, 

When  other  days  shall  come, — 

When  she  who  had  thy  earliest  kiss 
Sleeps  in  her  narrow  home ; 

Kemember  T was  a mother  gave 
The  gift  to  one  she ’d  die  to  save. 

That  mother  sought  a pledge  of  love 
The  holiest  for  her  son  ; 

And  from  the  gifts  of  God  above 
She  chose  a goodly  one, — 

She  chose  for  her  beloved  boy 

The  source  of  light,  and  life,  and  joy ; — 

And  bade  him  keep  the  gift,  that  when 
The  parting  hour  should  come. 

They  might  have  hope  to  meet  again 
In  an  eternal  home  ! 

She  said  his  faith  in  that  would  be 
Sweet  incense  to  her  memory. 


NOT  TO  MYSELF  ALONE. 


51 


And  should  the  scoffer,  in  his  pride, 

Laugh  that  fond  faith  to  scorn, 

And  bid  him  cast  the  pledge  aside 
That  he  from  youth  had  borne. 

She  bade  him  pause,  and  ask  his  breast 
If  he,  or  she,  had  loved  him  best ! 

A parent’s  blessing  on  her  son 
Goes  with  this  holy  thing  ; 

The  love  that  would  retain  the  one 
Must  to  the  other  cling ; 

Remember ! ’t  is  no  idle  toy, 

A Mother’s  Gift,  — remember,  boy ! 

KENNEDY. 


“NOT  TO  MYSELF  ALONE.” 

“ Not  to  myself  alone,” 

The  little  opening  flower  transported  cries, 

“ Not  to  myself  alone  I bud  and  bloom ; 

With  fragrant  breath  the  breezes  I perfume, 
And  gladden  all  things  with  my  rainbow  dyes. 
The  bee  comes  sipping,  every  eventide. 

His  dainty  fill ; 

The  butterfly  within  my  cup  doth  hide 
From  threatening  ill.” 

“ Not  to  myself  alone,” 

The  circling  star  with  honest  pride  doth  boast, 

Not  to  myself  alone  I rise  and  set ; 

I write  upon  night’s  coronal  of  jet 
His  power  and  skill  who  formed  our  myriad  host ; 
A friendly  beacon  at  heaven’s  open  gate, 

I gem  the  sky, 


52 


SELECTIONS  IN  POETIIY. 


That  man  might  ne’er  forget,  in  every  fate, 

Ilis  home  on  high.” 

“Not  to  myself  alone,” 

The  heavy-laden  bee  doth  murmuring  hum, 

“ Not  to  myself  alone,  from  flower  to  flower, 

I rove  the  wood,  the  garden,  and  the  bower, 
And  to  the  hive  at  evening  weary  come : 

For  man,  for  man,  the  luscious  food  I pile 
With  busy  care. 

Content  if  he  repay  my  ceaseless  toil 
With  scanty  share.” 

“ Not  to  myself  alone,” 

The  soaring  bird  with  lusty  pinion  sings, 

“ Not  to  myself  alone  I raise  my  song ; 

I cheer  the  drooping  with  my  warbling  tongue. 
And  bear  the  mourner  on  my  viewless  wings  ; 

I bid  the  hymnless  churl  my  anthem  learn. 
And  God  adore ; 

I call  the  worldling  from  his  dross  to  turn 
And  sing  and  soar.” 

“Not  to  myself  alone,” 

The  streamlet  whispers  on  its  pebbly  way, 

“ Not  to  myself  alone  I sparkling  glide  ; 

I scatter  health  and  life  on  every  side. 

And  strew  the  fields  with  herb  and  flow’ret  gay. 

I sing  unto  the  common,  bleak  and  bare. 

My  gladsome  tune ; 

I sweeten  and  refresh  the  languid  air 
In  droughty  June.” 


THE  DAISY. 


53 


“ Not  to  myself  alone  : ” — 

0 man,  forget  not  thou,  — earth’s  honored  priest. 
Its  tongue,  its  soul,  its  life,  its  pulse,  its  heart,  — 
In  earth’s  great  chorus  to  sustain  thy  part ! 
Chiefest  of  guests  at  Love’s  ungrudging  feast. 

Play  not  the  niggard ; spurn  thy  native  clod, 

And  self  disown ; 

Live  to  thy  neighbor  ; live  unto  thy  God  ; 

Not  to  thyself  alone ! 


THE  DAISY. 

Not  worlds  on  worlds,  in  phalanx  deep. 
Need  we  to  prove  a God  is  here ; 

The  daisy,  fresh  from  winter’s  sleep. 

Tells  of  His  hand  in  lines  as  clear. 

For  who  but  He  who  arched  the  skies. 
And  pours  the  day-spring’s  living  flood, 

Wondrous  alike  in  all  He  tries. 

Could  rear  the  daisy’s  curious  bud; 

Mould  its  green  cup,  its  wiry  stem. 

Its  fringM  border  nicely  spin. 

And  cut  the  gold-embossed  gem. 

That,  set  in  silver,  gleams  within ; 

And  fling  it,  beautiful  and  free. 

O’er  hill  and  dale  and  desert  sod, 

That  man,  where’er  he  walks,  may  sec. 

In  every  step,  the  stamp  of  God  ? 

GOOD. 


SELECTIONS  IN  TOETRY. 


STANZAS. 

The  dead  leaves  strc^7  the  forest  walk, 

And  withered  are  the  pale  wild-flowers , 

The  frost  hangs  blackening  on  the  stalk, 

The  dew-drops  fall  in  frozen  showers. 

Gone  are  the  Spring’s  green  sprouting  bowers, 
Gone  Summer’s  rich  and  mantling  vines, 

And  Autumn,  with  her  yellow  hours. 

On  hill  and  plain  no  longer  shines. 

I learned  a clear  and  wild-toned  note. 

That  rose  and  swelled  from  yonder  tree ; 

A gay  bird,  with  too  sweet  a throat. 

There  perched,  and  raised  her  song  for  me. 

The  Winter  comes,  — and  where  is  she  ? 
Away,  where  Summer  wings  will  rove, 

Where  buds  are  fresh,  and  every  tree 
Is  vocal  with  the  notes  of  love. 

Too  mild  the  breath  of  southern  sky, 

Too  fresh  the  flower  that  blushes  there ; 

The  northern  breeze  that  rustles  by 

Finds  leaves  too  green,  and  buds  too  fair. 

No  forest-tree  stands  stripped  and  bare. 

No  stream  beneath  the  ice  is  dead  ; 

No  mountain  top,  with  sleety  hair. 

Bends  o’er  the  snow  its  reverend  head. 

Go  there,  with  all  the  birds,  and  seek 
A happier  clime  with  livelier  flight ; 

Kiss  with  the  sun  the  evening’s  cheek, 

And  leave  me  lonely  with  the  night. 


THE  LAMENTATION  FOR  CELIN. 


55 


I ’ll  gaze  upon  the  cold  north  light, 

And  mark  where  all  its  glories  shone ; 
See  that  it  all  is  fair  and  bright, 

Feel  that  it  all  is  cold,  and  gone. 

BRAIXARD. 


THE  LAMENTATION  FOR  CELIN. 

At  the  gate  of  old  Granada,  when  all  its  bolts  are  barred, 

At  twilight,  at  the  A^ega-gate,  there  is  a trampling  heard  ; 

There  is  a trampling  heard,  as  of  horses  treading  slow, 

And  a weeping  voice  of  women,  and  a heavy  sound  of 
woe. 

“ What  tower  is  fallen  ? what  star  is  set  ? what  chief  come 
these  bewailing  ? ” 

“ A tower  is  fallen  ! A star  is  set ! — Alas  I alas  for 
Celin ! ” 

Three  times  they  knock,  three  times  they  cry,  and  wide 
the  doors  they  throw  ; 

Dejectedly  they  enter,  and  mournfully  they  go  ! 

In  gloomy  lines  they  mustering  stand  beneath  the  hollow 
porch, 

Each  horseman  grasping  in  his  hand  a black  and  flaming 
torch. 

AVet  is  each  eye  as  they  go  by,  and  all  around  is  wailing, 

For  all  have  heard  the  misery,  — “ Alas  I alas  for  Celin  ! ’’ 

Him  yesterday  a Moor  did  slay,  of  Bencerrage’s  blood  * 

’T  was  at  the  solemn  jousting  ; around  the  nobles  stood  ; 

The  nobles  of  the  land  were  by,  and  ladies  bright  and  fair 

Looked  from  their  latticed  windows,  the  haughty  sight 
to  share ; 


5G 


SELECTIONS  IN  TOETRY. 


But  now  the  nobles  all  lament,  the  ladies  are  bewailing, 

For  he  was  Granada’s  darling  knight,  — “Alas!  alas  for 
Cclin  ! 

Before  him  ride  his  vassals,  in  order  two  by  two, 

AVith  ashes  on  their  turbans  spread,  most  pitiful  to  view; 
]3ehind  him  his  four  sisters,  each  wrapped  in  sable  veil, 
Between  the  tambour’s  dismal  strokes  take  up  their  dole- 
ful tale ; 

Wdien  stops  the  muffled  drum,  ye  hear  their  brotherlcss 
bewailing. 

And  all  the  people,  far  and  near,  cry,  — “ Alas  ! alas  for 
Celin ! ” 

O ! lovely  lies  he  on  the  bier,  above  the  purple  pall. 

The  flower  of  all  Granada’s  youth,  the  loveliest  of  them  all ; 
liis  dark,  dark  eyes  are  closed,  his  rosy  lip  is  pale. 

The  crust  of  blood  lies  black  and  dim  upon  his  burnished 
mail ; 

And  evermore  the  hoarse  tambour  breaks  in  upon  their 
wailing. 

Its  sound  is  like  no  earthly  sound,  — “ Alas ! alas  for  Celin ! ” 

The  Moorish  maid  at  the  lattice  stands,  the  Moor  stands  at 
his  door ; 

One  maid  is  wringing  of  her  hands,  and  one  is  weeping  sore. 
Down  to  the  dust  men  bow  their  heads,  and  ashes  black 
they  strew 

Upon  their  broidered  garments,  of  crimson,  green,  and  blue  ; 
]]efore  each  gate  their  bier  stands  still,  then  bursts  the  loud 
bewailing. 

From  door  and  lattice,  high  and  low,  — “ Alas ! alas  for 
Celin ! ” 


CHARACTER  OF  THE  HAPPY  WARRIOR. 


57 


An  old,  old  woman  cometh  forth,  when  she  hoars  the  people 
cry. 

Her  hair  is  white  as  silver,  like  horn  her  glazed  eye ; 

’T  was  she  that  nursed  him  at  her  breast,  that  nursed  him 
long  ago ; 

She  knows  not  whom  they  all  lament,  but  soon  she  well 
shall  know  ! 

With  one  deep  shriek,  she  through  doth  break,  when  her 
ears  receive  their  wailing,  — 

“ Let  me  kiss  my  Celin  ere  I die ! — Alas  ! alas  for  Celin  ! ” 

LOCKHART. 


CHARACTER  OF  THE  HAPPY  WARRIOR. 

Who  is  the  happy  warrior  ? Who  is  he. 

That  every  Man  in  arms  should  wish  to  be  ? 

It  is  the  generous  Spirit,  who,  when  brought 
Among  the  tasks  of  real  life,  hath  wrought 
Upon  the  plan  that  pleased  his  boyish  thought : 
Whose  high  endeavors  are  an  inward  light 
That  makes  the  path  before  him  always  bright : 
Who,  with  a natural  instinct  to  discern 
What  knowledge  can  perform,  is  'diligent  to  learn  ; 
Abides  by  this  resolve,  and  stops  not  there. 

But  makes  his  moral  being  his  prime  care : 

Who,  doomed  to  go  in  company  with  Pain, 

And  Fear,  and  Bloodshed,  miserable  train  ! 

Turns  his  necessity  to  glorious  gain ; 

In  face  of  these  doth  exercise  a power 
Which  is  our  human  nature’s  highest  dower ; 
Controls  them  and  subdues,  transmutes,  bereaves. 
Of  their  bad  influence,  and  their  good  receives  : 
By  objects  which  might  force  the  soul  to  abate 
Her  feeling,  rendered  more  compassionate  ; 

3=^ 


58 


SELECTIONS  IN  TOETRY. 


Is  placable,  — because  occasions  rise 
So  often  that  demand  such  sacrifice  ; 

More  skilful  in  self-knowledge,  even  more  pure. 

As  tempted  more  ; more  able  to  endure. 

As  more  exposed  to  suffering  and  distress, 

Thence,  also,  more  alive  to  tenderness. 

’T  is  he  whose  law  is  reason ; who  depends 
Upon  that  law  as  on  the  best  of  friends ; 

Whence,  in  a state  where  men  are  tempted  still 
To  evil  for  a guard  against  worse  ill, 

And  what  in  quality  or  act  is  best 
Doth  seldom  on  a right  foundation  rest, 

He  fixes  good  on  good  alone,  and  ow^es 
To  virtue  every  triumph  that  he  knows  : 

Who,  if  he  rise  to  station  of  command. 

Rises  by  open  means  ; and  there  will  stand 
On  honorable  terms,  or  else  retire. 

And  in  himself  possess  his  own  desire  ; 

Who  comprehends  his  trust,  and  to  the  same 
Keeps  faithful  with  a singleness  of  aim  ; 

And  therefore  does  not  stoop,  nor  lie  in  wait 
For  wealth,  or  honors,  or  for  worldly  state  ; 

Whom  they  must  follow ; on  whose  head  must  fall. 
Like  showers  of  manna,  if  they  come  at  all : 

Whose  powers  shed  round  him  in  the  common  strife, 
Or  mild  concerns  of  ordinary  life, 

A constant  influence,  a peculiar  grace ; 

But  who,  if  he  be  called  upon  to  face 

Some  awful  moment  to  which  Heaven  has  joined 

Great  issues,  good  or  bad,  for  human  kind. 

Is  happy  as  a lover  ; and  attired 

With  sudden  brightness,  like  a man  inspired ; 

And,  through  the  heat  of  conflict,  keeps  the  law 


CHARACTER  OF  THE  HAPPY  WARRIOR. 


59 


In  calmness  made,  and  sees  what  he  foresaw ; 

Or,  if  an  unexpected  call  succeed. 

Come  when  it  will,  is  equal  to  the  need  : 

He  who,  though  thus  endued  as  with  a sense 
And  faculty  for  storm  and  turbulence, 

Is  yet  a soul  whose  master-bias  leans 
To  homefelt  pleasures  and  to  gentle  scenes  ; 

Sweet  images  ! which,  wheresoe’er  he  be. 

Are  at  his  heart ; and  such  fidelity 
It  is  his  darling  passion  to  approve ; 

More  brave  for  this,  that  he  hath  much  to  love  : — 
’T  is  finally  the  Man,  who,  lifted  high, 

Conspicuous  object  in  a Nation’s  eye, 

Or  left  unthought  of  in  obscurity,  — 

Who,  with  a toward  or  untoward  lot, 

Prosperous  or  adverse  to  his  wish  or  not, 

Plays  in  the  many  games  of  life  that  one 
Where  what  he  most  doth  value  must  be  won : 
Whom  neither  shape  of  danger  can  dismay,  ' 

Nor  thought  of  tender  happiness  betray  ; 

Who,  not  content  that  former  worth  stand  fast, 
Looks  forward,  persevering  to  the  last. 

From  well  to  better,  daily  self-surpast : 

Who,  whether  praise  of  him  must  walk  the  earth, 
Forever,  and  to  noble  deeds  give  birth, 

Or  he  must  go  to  dust  without  his  fame, 

And  leave  a dead,  unprofitable  name. 

Finds  comfort  in  himself  and  in  his  cause ; 

And,  while  the  mortal  mist  is  gathering,  draws 
His  breath  in  confidence  of  Heaven’s  applause  : 

This  is  THE  HAPPY  WARRIOR  ; this  is  he. 

Whom  every  Man  in  arms  should  wish  to  be. 

'WORDSWORTH. 


60 


SELECTIONS  IN  TOETIIY. 


A PLEA  FOR  OUR  PHYSICAL  LIFE. 

We  do  our  nature  wrong, 

Neglecting  over  long 

The  bodily  joys  that  help  to  make  us  wise  ; 

The  ramble  up  the  slope 
Of  the  high  mountain  cope, 

The  long  day’s  walk,  the  vigorous  exercise ; 

The  fresh,  luxurious  bath. 

Far  from  the  trodden  path ; 

Or,  ’mid  the  ocean  waves  dashing  with  harmless  roar, 
Lifting  us  oif  our  feet  upon  the  sandy  shore. 

Kind  Heaven  ! there  is  no  end 
Of  pleasures,  as  we  wend 
Our  pilgrimage  in  life’s  undevious  way. 

If  we  but  know  the  laws 
Of  the  Eternal  Cause, 

And  for  His  glory  and  our  good  obey ; 

But  intellectual  pride 
Sets  half  these  joys  aside, 

And  our  perennial  care  absorbs  the  soul  so  much. 

That  life  grows  cold  and  dim  beneath  its  deadening  touch. 

Welcome,  ye  plump  green  meads, 

Ye  streams  and  sighing  reeds ! 

Welcome,  ye  corn-fields,  waving  like  a sea ! 
Welcome,  the  leafy  bowers. 

And  children  gathering  flowers ! 

And  farewell,  for  a while,  sage  drudgery ! 

AVhat  though  we  ’re  growing  old,  — 

Our  blood  is  not  yet  cold: 

Come  with  me  to  the  fields,  thou  man  of  many  ills, 

And  give  thy  limbs  a chance  among  the  dafibdils  I 


EVENING  TIME. 


61 


Come  witli  me  to  the  woods, 

And  let  their  solitudes 
Reecho  to  our  voices,  as  we  go ! 

Upon  thy  merry  brain 
Let  childhood  come  again. 

Spite  of  thy  w^ealth,  thy  learning,  or  thy  woe ! 
Stretch  forth  thy  limbs,  and  leap,  — 

Thy  life  has  been  asleep ; 

And,  though  the  wrinkles  deep  may  furrow  thy  pale  brow, 
Show  me,  if  thou  art  wise,  how  like  a child  art  thou ! 

MACKAY. 


EVENING  TIME. 

Zech.  14  : 7. 

At  evening  time  let  there  be  light : 

Life’s  little  day  draws  near  its  close ; 
Around  me  fall  the  shades  of  night. 

The  night  of  death,  the  grave’s  repose : 

To  crown  my  joys,  to  end  my  woes. 

At  evening  time  let  there  be  light. 

At  evening  time  let  there  be  light : 

Stormy  and  dark  hath  been  my  day ; 

Yet  rose  the  morn  divinely  bright. 

Dews,  birds  and  blossoms,  cheered  the  way  ; 
0,  for  one  sweet,  one  parting  ray ! 

At  evening  tim.e  let  there  be  light. 

At  evening  time  there  shall  be  light ; 

For  God  hath  spoken  — it  must  be : 

Fear,  doubt  and  anguish,  take  their  flight, 


..  SELECTIONS  IN  TOETRY, 


Ills  glory  now  is  risen  on  me ! 

Mine  eyes  shall  His  salvation  see ! 

— ’T  is  evening  time,  and  there  is  liglit ! 

MONTGOJIEUy. 


“WE  JOY  THAT  THOU  ART  FREE.” 

Time  hath  not  power  to  bear  away 
Thine  image  from  the  heart ; 

No  scenes  that  mark  life’s  onward  way 
Can  bid  it  hence  depart. 

Yet,  while  our  souls,  with  anguish  riven, 
Mourn,  loved  and  lost,  for  thee. 

We  raise  our  tearful  eyes  to  Heaven, 
And  joy  that  thou  art  free. 

We  miss  thee  from  the  band  so  dear 
That  gathers  round  our  hearth. 

We  listen  still  thy  voice  to  hear 
Amid  our  household  mirth ; 

We  gaze  upon  thy  vacant  chair. 

Thy  form  we  seem  to  see,  — 

We  start  to  find  thou  art  not  there. 

Yet  joy  that  thou  art  free. 

A thousand  old,  familiar  things. 

Within  our  childhood’s  home. 

Speak  of  the  cherished  absent  one. 

Who  never  more  shall  come. 

They  wake,  with  mingled  bliss  and  pain, 
Fond  memories  of  thee ; 

But  would  we  call  thee  back  again  ? — 
We  joy  that  thou  art  free. 


THE  PLOUGHMAN. 


63 


Amid  earth’s  conflict,  woe  and  care, 
When  dark  our  path  appears, 

’T  is  sweet  to  know  thou  can  st  not  share 
Our  anguish  and  our  tears,  — 

That  on  thy  head  no  more  shall  fall 
The  storms  we  may  not  flee ; 

Yes,  safely  sheltered  from  them  all, 

We  joy  that  thou  art  free. 

For  thou  hast  gained  a brighter  land. 
And  Death’s  cold  stream  is  past ; 
Thine  are  the  joys,  at  God’s  right  hand, 
That  shall  forever  last ; 

A crown  is  on  thy  angel  brow, 

Thine  eye  the  King  doth  see. 

Thy  home  is  with  the  seraphs  now,  — 
We  joy  that  thou  art  free  ! 


THE  PLOUGHMAN. 

Clear  the  brown  path  to  meet  his  coulter’s  gleam ! 
Lo,  on  he  comes,  behind  his  smoking  team, 

With  Toil’s  bright  dew-drops  on  his  sun-burnt  brow, 
The  lord  of  earth,  the  hero  of  the  plough ! 

First  in  the  field  before  the  reddening  sun. 

Last  in  the  shadows  when  the  day  is  done. 

Line  after  line,  along  the  bursting  sod, 

Marks  the  broad  acres  where  his  feet  have  trod. 

Still  where  he  treads  the  stubborn  clods  divide. 

The  smooth,  fresh  furrow  opens,  deep  and  wide ; 
Matted  and  dense  the  tangled  turf  upheaves ; 
Mellow  and  dark  the  ridgy  corn-field  cleaves. 


64 


SELECTIONS  IN  POETRY. 


Up  the  steep  hill-side,  where  the  laboring  train 
Slants  the  long  track  that  scores  the  level  plain, 
Through  the  moist  valley,  clogged  with  oozing  clay. 
The  patient  convoy  breaks  its  destined  way ; 

At  every  turn  the  loosening  chains  resound. 

The  swinging  ploughshare  circles  glistening  round. 
Till  the  wide  field  one  billowy  waste  appears. 

And  wearied  hands  unbind  the  panting  steers. 

These  are  the  hands  whose  sturdy  labor  brings 
The  peasant’s  food,  the  golden  pomp  of  kings ; 

This  is  the  page  whose  letters  shall  be  seen 
Changed  by  the  sun  to  words  of  living  green  ; 

This  is  the  scholar  whose  immortal  pen 
Spells  the  first  lesson  hunger  taught  to  men ; 

These  are  the  lines,  0,  heaven-commanded  Toil, 

That  fill  thy  deed  — the  charter  of  the  soil ! 

0,  gracious  mother,  whose  benignant  breast 
Wakes  us  to  life,  and  lulls  us  all  to  rest. 

How  sweet  thy  features,  kind  to  every  clime. 

Mock  with  their  smile  the  wrinkled  front  of  Time  ! 
We  stain  thy  flowers,  — they  blossom  o’er  the  dead ; 
We  rend  thy  bosom,  and  it  gives  us  bread ; 

O’er  the  red  field  that  trampling  strife  has  torn 
Waves  the  green  plumage  of  thy  tasselled  corn ; 

Our  maddening  conflicts  scar  thy  fairest  plain,  — 
Still  thy  soft  answer  is  the  growing  grain. 

Yet,  0 our  mother,  while  uncounted  charms 
Hound  the  fresh  clasp  of  thine  embracing  arms. 

Let  not  our  virtues  in  thy  love  decay. 

And  thy  fond  weakness  waste  our  strength  away  ! 


THE  FIRST  OF  MARCH. 


65 


No ! by  these  hills,  whose  banners,  now  displayed, 

In  blazing  cohorts  Autumn  has  arrayed ; 

By  yon  twin  crest,  amid  the  sinking  sphere, 

Last  to  dissolve,  and  first  to  reappear ; 

By  these  fair  plains  the  mountain  circle  screens, 

And  feeds  in  silence  from  its  dark  ravines,  — 

True  to  their  home,  these  faithful  arms  shall  toil, 

To  crown  with  peace  their  own  untainted  soil ; 

And,  true  to  God,  to  Freedom,  to  Mankind, 

If  her  chained  bandogs  Faction  shall  unbind. 

These  stately  forms,  that,  bending  even  now. 

Bowed  their  strong  manhood  to  the  humble  plough, 
Shall  rise  erect,  the  guardians  of  the  land. 

The  same  stern  iron  in  the  same  right  hand. 

Till  Greylock  thunders  to  the  parting  sun. 

The  sword  has  rescued  what  the  ploughshare  won  ! 

HOLMES. 


THE  rmST  OF  MAECH. 

The  bud  is  in  the  bough,  and  the  leaf  is  in  the  bud. 

And  earth ’s  beginning  now  in  her  veins  to  feel  the  blood, 
Which,  warmed  by  summer’s  sun  in  th’  alembic  of  the  vine, 
From  her  fount  will  overrun  in  a ruddy  gush  of  wine. 

The  perfume  and  the  bloom  that  shall  decorate  the  flower 
Are  quickening  in  the  gloom  of  their  subterranean  bower ; 
And  the  juices,  meant  to  feed  trees,  vegetables,  fruits. 
Unerringly  proceed  to  their  preappointed  roots. 

How  awful  is  the  thought  of  the  wonders  under  ground. 

Of  the  mystic  changes  wrought  in  the  silent,  dark  profound  ! 
How  each  thing  upward  tends,  by  necessity  decreed. 

And  a world’s  support  depends  on  the  shooting  of  a seed ! 

E 


6G 


SELECTIONS  IN  POETRY . 


The  Summer ’s  in  her  ark,  and  this  sunny-pinioned  day 
Is  commissioned  to  remark  whether  Winter  holds  his 
sway : — 

Go  back,  thou  dove  of  peace,  with  the  myrtle  on  thy  wing, 
Say  that  floods  and  tempests  cease,  and  the  world  is  ripe  for 
Spring. 

Thou  hast  fanned  the  sleeping  earth,  till  her  dreams  are  all 
of  flowers. 

And  the  waters  look  in  mirth  for  their  overhanging  bowers ; 
The  forest  seems  to  listen  for  the  rustle  of  its  leaves. 

And  the  very  skies  to  glisten  in  the  hope  of  summer  eves. 

The  vivifying  spell  has  been  felt  beneath  the  wave ; 

Ey  the  dormouse  in  its  cell,  and  the  mole  within  its  cave  ; 
And  the  summer  tribes  that  creep,  or  in  air  expand  their  wing. 
Have  started  from  their  sleep  at  the  summons  of  the  Spring. 

The  cattle  lift  their  voices  from  the  valleys  and  the  hills. 
And  the  feathered  race  rejoices  with  a gush  of  tuneful  bills ; 
And  if  this  cloudless  arch  fills  the  poet’s  song  with  glee, 

0,  thou  sunny  first  of  March,  be  it  dedicate  to  thee ! 

. HORACE  SMITH. 


STAJ^^ZA. 

Few  are  the  fragments  left  of  follies  past ; 

For  worthless  things  are  transient.  Those  that  last 
Have  in  them  germs  of  an  eternal  spirit, 

And  out  of  good  their  permanence  inherit. 

Baseness  is  mutability’s  ally  ; 

But  the  sublime  affections  never  die. 


BOWRIXG. 


THE  LIGIIT-IIOUSE. 


67 


THE  LIGHT-HOUSE. 

The  scene  was  more  beautiful  far  to  my  eye 
Than  if  day  in  its  pride  had  arrayed  it ; 

The  land-breeze  blew  mild,  and  the  azure-arched  sky 
Looked  pure  as  the  Spirit  that  made  it ; 

The  murmur  rose  soft  as  I silently  gazed 
On  the  shadowy  waves’  playful  motion, 

From  the  dim  distant  hill,  ’till  the  light-house  fire  blazed 
Like  a star  in  the  midst  of  the  ocean. 

No  longer  the  joy  of  the  sailor-boy’s  breast 
Was  heard  in  his  wildly-breathed  numbers ; 

The  sea-bird  had  flown  to  her  wave-girdled  nest. 

The  fisherman  sunk  to  his  slumbers : 

One  moment  I looked  from  the  hill’s  gentle  slope,  — 

All  hushed  was  the  billows’  commotion,  — 

And  thought  that  the  light-house  looked  lovely  as  hope, 
That  star  of  life’s  tremulous  ocean. 


68 


SELECTIONS  IN  POETRY. 


The  time  is  long  past,  and  the  scene  is  afar, 

Yet  when  my  head  rests  on  its  pillow, 

Will  memory  sometimes  rekindle  the  star 
That  blazed  on  the  breast  of  the  billow  : 

In  life’s  closing  hour,  when  the  trembling  soul  flies, 
And  death  stills  the  heart’s  last  emotion, 

0 ! then  may  the  seraph  of  mercy  arise. 

Like  a star  on  eternity’s  ocean. 


HOPE  AND  LOVE. 

One  day,  through  Fancy’s  telescope. 
Which  is  my  richest  treasure, 

I saw,  dear  Susan,  Love  and  Hope 
Set  out  in  search  of  Pleasure  : 

All  mirth  and  smiles,  I saw  them  go ; 

Each  was  the  other’s  banker ; 

For  Hope  took  up  her  brother’s  bow, 

And  Love  his  sister’s  anchor. 

They  rambled  on  o’er  vale  and  hill. 

They  passed  by  cot  and  tower ; 

Through  summer’s  glow  and  winter’s  chill. 
Through  sunshine  and  through  shower ; 

But  what  did  those  fond  playmates  care 
For  climate  or  for  weather  ? 

All  scenes  to  them  were  bright  and  fair 
On  which  they  gazed  together. 

Sometimes  they  turned  aside  to  bless 
Some  Muse  and  her  wild  numbers. 

Or  breathe  a dream  of  holiness 
On  Beauty’s  quiet  slumbers  ; 


HOPE  AND  LOVE. 


69 


“ Fly  on,”  said  Wisdom,  with  cold  sneers ; 

“ I teach  my  friends  to  doubt  you 
“ Come  back,”  said  Age,  with  bitter  tears, 

“ My  heart  is  cold  without  you.” 

When  Poverty  beset  their  path. 

And  threatened  to  divide  them. 

They  coaxed  away  the  beldame’s  wrath. 

Ere  she  had  breath  to  chide  them. 

By  vowing  all  her  rags  were  silk. 

And  all  her  bitters  honey. 

And  showing  taste  for  bread  and  milk. 

And  utter  scorn  of  money. 

They  met  stern  Danger  in  their  way, 

Upon  a ruin  seated ; 

Before  him  kings  had  quaked  that  day. 

And  armies  had  retreated : 

But  he  was  robed  in  such  a cloud. 

As  Love  and  Hope  came  near  him. 

That,  though  he  thundered  long  and  loud. 
They  did  not  see  or  hear  him. 

A gray-beard  joined  them,  — Time  by  name ; 

And  Love  was  nearly  crazy. 

To  find  that  he  was  very  lame. 

And  also  very  lazy : 

Hope,  as  he  listened  to  her  tale. 

Tied  wings  upon  his  jacket ; 

And  then  they  far  outran  the  mail. 

And  far  outsailed  the  packet. 

And  so,  when  they  had  safely  passed 
O’er  many  a land  and  billow, 


70 


SELECTIONS  IN  POETRY. 


Before  a grave  they  stopped,  at  last, 
Beneath  a weeping  willow : 

The  moon  upon  the  humble  mound 
Her  softest  light  was  flinging ; 

And  from  the  thickets  all  around 
Sad  nightingales  were  singing. 

“ I leave  you  here,”  quoth  Father  Time, 

As  hoarse  as  any  raven ; 

And  Love  kneeled  down  to  spell  the  rhyme 
Upon  the  rude  stone  graven  : 

But  Hope  looked  onward,  calmly  brave. 
And  whispered,  “ Dearest  brother. 

We  ’re  parted  on  this  side  the  grave,  — 
We  ’ll  meet  upon  the  other.” 

PRAED. 


SERMONS  IN  SONNETS. 

I. 

“What  God  hath  cleansed,  that  call  thou  not  common.”  — Jets  10:  15. 

Behold  men’s  judgments ! Common  and  unclean 
We  call  whatever  with  our  pride  doth  jar, 

Though  from  one  God  and  Father  all  things  are. 
Behold  men’s  judgments  ! The  deep  truth  unseen, 
Bash  we  decide  what  mere  externals  mean. 

Know’st  thou,  while  thy  proud  eye  is  closed  afar. 

In  what  mean  worm  God  may  illume  a star  ? 

Know’st  thou  where  His  great  Spirit  dwells  serene  ? 
Thou  dost  not.  What  thy  pride  may  worthless  deem, 
Ay,  tainted  with  pollution,  may  become  — 
liaised  from  the  dust  — the  fairest,  loveliest  home 
Wliere  radiant  Deity  can  shrine  its  beam  ; 

]May  be  redeemed  from  Nature’s  common  blot. 

Ay,  though  perhaps  thy  very  self  be  not ! 


SERMONS  IN  SONNETS. 


71 


II. 

“ In  my  Father’s  house  are  many  mansions.”  — St.  John  14 : 2. 

Ye  orbs  that  tremble  through  infinity, 

And  are  ye,  then,  linked  only  with  our  eyes. 
Dissevered  from  our  thoughts,  our  smiles,  our  sighs,  — 
Our  hopes  and  dreams  of  being  yet  to  be  ? 

0,  if  all  nature  be  a harmony 

(As  sure  it  is),  why  in  those  solemn  skies 

Should  ye  our  vision  mock,  like  glittering  lies 

To  man  all  unrelated  ? Must  I see 

Your  glories  only  as  a tinselled  waste  ? 

If  so,  I half  despise  your  spectacle ! 

But  if  I deem  that  ye  form  eras  vast, 

And  do,  by  mighty  revolution,  tell 
Time  to  intelligent  existences. 

Awe-struck,  I do  assist  at  your  solemnities  f 

III. 

“The  sting  of  death  is  sin.”  — 1 Corinthians  15  : 56. 

“ 0,  death  will  be  so  beautiful ! ” one  said 
To  me ; a child  he  was  by  sickness  worn : 

I looked  at  him ; his  face  was  like  the  morn 
When  from  its  beauty  the  dull  vapors  glide. 

The  dusky  curtains  that  the  next  world  hide 
Seemed  for  a moment’s  space  asunder  torn. 

“ My  Saviour  loves  me  ! ” yet  again  he  sighed, 

And  upward  gazed,  with  eye  beatified ; — 

That  look  with  him  unto  the  grave  was  borne ! 

0,  could  we  smile  into  the  next  world  too ! 

Why  not  ? 0 bounteous  Nature,  bounteous  Grace, 

If  Death  be  dread,  ’t  is  we  who  make  it  so. 

Straying  alike  from  God  and  Nature’s  face. 

Two  lovely  roads  lead  to  our  common  rest,  — 
Forgiveness,  Innocence,  — and  both  are  best ! 


72 


SELECTIONS  IN  POETRY. 


IV. 

“Eyes  to  the  blind.”  — Job  29;  15. 

O,  joy  it  is  when  we  our  mission  find, 

Even  if  it  be  to  wipe  the  humblest  tear, 

Or  still  the  very  faintest  human  fear. 

But  something  it  must  be  for  human  kind ! 

How  else  appease  the  thirst  of  soul  and  mind,  — 
Bemorse,  — which  most  doth  wait  on  wasted  powers, 
The  rankling  nothingness  of  trifled  hours 
And  thwarted  aims  ? Feel’st  thou  that  thou  art  blind  ? 
Go  unto  Nature.  Beauty,  Joy  and  Use, 

Are  severed  but  in  man’s  philosophy. 

The  rose  does  more  than  feed  the  honey-bee ; 

Nothing  dies  in  itself.  Only  unloose  — 

In  Christ,  Creation’s  eye  — thy  filmy  sight. 

And  thou  on  earth  shalt  choose  thy  place  aright. 


“At  tht  right  hand  are  pleasures  forevermore.”  — Ps«Zm  16  11. 

Without  the  smile  of  God  upon  the  soul. 

We  see  not,  and  the  world  has  lost  its  light ; 

For  us  there  is  no  quiet  in  the  night. 

No  beauty  in  the  stars.  The  saffron  stole 
Of  morning,  or  the  pomp  of  evening’s  goal. 

That  celebrates  Bay’s  marriage  with  the  Sea,  — 
Blue  distance,  silver  lake,  hill,  glen  and  tree,  — 

Are  sealed  unto  the  spirit  like  a scroll 
Writ  in  a perished  language.  But  a ray 
Upon  this  darkness  suddenly  may  dart. 

And  Christ’s  dear  love  be  poured  into  the  heart. 

To  clothe  Creation  in  a robe  of  day. 

Then  doth  the  morning  cheer,  the  night  hath  calm, 
And  skies  a glory,  and  the  dews  a balm. 


TRUE  COURAGE. 


73. 


VI. 

“Ills  BANNER  OVER  ME  WAS  LOVE.”  — Cant.  2 : 4. 

He  who  loves  best  knows  most.  Then  why  should  I 
Let  my  tired  thoughts  so  far,  so  restless,  run, 

In  quest  of  knowledge  underneath  the  sun, 

Or  round  about  the  wide-encircling  sky  ? 

Nor  earth  nor  heaven  are  read  by  scrutiny  ! 

But  touch  me  with  a Saviour’s  love  divine, 

I pierce  at  once  to  wisdom’s  inner  shrine. 

And  my  soul  seeth  all  things  like  an  eye. 

Then  have  I treasures,  which  to  fence  and  heed 
Makes  weakness  bold  and  folly  wisdom-strung. 

As  doves  are  valorous  to  guard  their  young. 

And  larks  are  wary  from  their  nests  to  lead. 

Is  there  a riddle,  and  resolved  you  need  it  ? 

Love  — only  love  — and  you  are  sure  to  read  it ! 

REV.  CHAUNCY  HARE  TOWNSHEND. 


TRUE  COURAGE. 

Onwards  ! throw  all  terrors  off ! 

Slight  the  scorner,  — scorn  the  scoff ! 

In  the  race,  and  not  the  prize. 

Glory’s  true  distinction  lies. 

Triumph  herds  with  meanest  things,  — 
Common  robbers,  vilest  kings, 

’Midst  the  reckless  multitude  ! 

But  the  generous,  but  the  good, 

Stand  in  modesty  alone. 

Still  serenely  struggling  on. 

Planting  peacefully  the  seeds 
Of  bright  hopes,  and  better  deeds. 

4 


4 


SELECTIONS  IN  POETRY. 


Mark  the  slowly-moving  plough  : 

Is  its  day  of  victory  now  ? 

It  defiles  the  emerald  sod, 

’Whelms  the  flowers  beneath  the  clod. 

Wait  the  swiftly-coming  hours,  — 

Fairer  green  and  sweeter  flowers, 

Ficher  fruits,  will  soon  appear. 

Cornucopias  of  the  year  ! 

BOWRING. 


THE  THREE  HOMES. 

“ Where  is  thy  home  ? ” I asked  a child. 
Who  in  the  morning  air 
Was  twining  flowers  most  sweet  and  wild 
In  garlands  for  her  hair. 

“ jMy  home,”  the  happy  heart  replied. 

And  smiled  in  childish  glee, 

“ Is  on  the  sunny  mountain  side. 

Where  soft  winds  wander  free.” 

0,  blessings  fall  on  artless  youth. 

And  all  its  rosy  hours. 

When  every  word  is  joy  and  truth. 

And  treasures  live  in  flowers ! 

“ Where  is  thy  home  ? ” I asked  of  one 
Who  bent,  with  flushing  face. 

To  hear  a warrior’s  tender  tone 
In  the  wild- wood’s  secret  place. 

She  spoke  not,  but  her  varying  cheek 
The  tale  might  well  impart ; 

The  home  of  her  young  spirit  meek 
Was  in  a kindred  heart. 


THE  GOOD  man’s  EXIT. 


75 


Ah ! souls  that  well  might  soar  abo-^ 

To  earth  will  fondly  cling, 

And  build  their  hopes  on  human  love, 

That  light  and  fragile  thing. 

“ Where  is  thy  home,  thou  lonely  man  ? ” 

I asked  a pilgrim  gray, 

Who  came,  with  furrowed  brow  and  wan. 
Slow  musing  on  his  way  : 

He  paused,  and  with  a solemn  mien 
Upturned  his  holy  eyes,  — 

“ The  land  I seek  thou  ne’er  hast  seen ; 

My  home  is  in  the  skies  ! ” 

0,  blessed,  thrice  blessed,  the  heart  must  be 
To  whom  such  thoughts  are  given. 

That  walks  from  worldly  fetters  free,  — 

Its  only  home  in  heaven ! 


THE  GOOD  MAN’S  EXIT. 

Sure  the  last  end 
Of  the  good  man  is  peace ! How  calm  his  exit ! 
Night*  dews  fall  not  more  gently  to  the  ground, 
Nor  weary  worn-out  winds  expire  so  soft. 

Behold  him  in  the  evening-tide  of  life, 

A life  well-spent,  whose  early  care  it  was 
His  riper  years  should  not  upbraid  his  green  ! 

By  unperceived  degrees  he  wears  away ; 

Yet,  like  the  sun,  seems  larger  at  his  setting. 
High  in  his  faith  and  hopes,  look  how  he  reaches 
^ After  the  prize  in  view ! and,  like  a bird 
That ’s  hampered,  struggles  hard  to  get  away  : 
Whilst  the  glad  gates  of  sight  are  wide  expanded 


76 


SELECTIONS  IN  POETRY. 


To  let  new  glories  in,  the  first  fair  fruits 
Of  the  fast-coming  harvest.  Then,  0,  then 
Each  earth-born  joy  grows  vile,  or  disappears. 
Shrunk  to  a thing  of  naught ! 0 ! how  he  longs 

To  have  his  passport  signed,  and  be  dismissed  ! 

’T  is  done  ! and  now  he ’s  happy  ! — the  glad  soul 
Has  not  a wish  uncrowned  ! 

BLAIR. 


ODE. 

There  is  some  doubt  whether  this  beautiful  ode  should  be  attributed  to  Andrew 
Marvell  or  to  Joseph  Addison.  It  was  originally  inserted  in  the  Spectator,  with- 
out the  name  of  the  author. 

The  spacious  firmament  on  high. 

With  all  the  blue  ethereal  sky. 

And  spangled  heavens,  a shining  frame. 

Their  great  Original  proclaim. 

The  unwearied  sun,  from  day  to  day. 

Does  his  Creator’s  power  display, 

And  publishes  to  every  land 
The  work  of  an  Almighty  Hand. 

Soon  as  the  evening  shades  prevail. 

The  moon  takes  up  the  wondrous  tale. 

And  nightly  to  the  listening  earth 
Repeats  the  story  of  her  birth ; 

While  all  the  stars  that  round  her  burn, 

And  all  the  planets,  in  their  turn. 

Confirm  the  tidings  as  they  roll. 

And  spread  the  truth  from  pole  to  pole. 

What  though  in  solemn  silence  all 
Move  round  this  dark  terrestrial  ball  ? 


A DREAM  OF  SUMMER. 


77 


What  though  no  real  voice  or  sound 
Amid  their  radiant  orbs  be  found  ? 

In  Reason’s  ear  they  all  rejoice, 

And  utter  forth  a glorious  voice  ; 
Forever  singing,  as  they  shine, 

The  hand  that  made  us  is  divine  ! ” 


A DREAM  OF  SUMMER. 

Bland  as  the  morning  breath  of  June 
The  south-west  breezes  play ; 

And  through  its  haze  the  winter  noon 
Seems  warm  as  summer’s  day. 

The  snow-plumed  angel  of  the  north 
Has  dropped  its  icy  spear ; 

Again  the  mossy  earth  looks  forth. 
Again  the  streams  gush  clear. 

The  fox  his  hill-side  cell  forsakes. 

The  muskrat  leaves  his  nook. 

The  blue-bird  in  the  meadow-brakes 
Is  singing  with  the  brook. 

Bear  up,  0 Mother  Nature ! ” cry 
Bird,  breeze,  and  streamlet  free ; 

‘‘  Our  winter  voices  prophesy 
Of  summer  days  to  thee ! ” 

So,  in  these  winters  of  the  soul, 

By  bitter  blasts  and  drear 

O’erswept  from  memory’s  frozen  pole. 
Will  sunny  days  appear. 

Reviving  Hope  and  Faith,  they  sliow 
The  soul  its  living  powers, 


SELECTIONS  IN  POETRY. 


And  how  beneath  the  winter’s  snow 
Lie  germs  of  summer  flowers  ! 

The  night  is  mother  of  the  day, 

The  winter  of  the  spring, 

As  ever  upon  old  decay 
The  greenest  mosses  cling. 

Behind  the  cloud  the  starlight  lurks, 
Through  showers  the  sunbeams  fall ; 
For  God,  who  loveth  all  his  works, 

Has  left  his  hope  with  all ! 

WHITTIER. 


FAREWELL  LIFE. 

Farewell  Life ! ]\Iy  senses  swim. 
And  the  world  is  growing  dim  : 
Thronging  shadows  crowd  the  light, 
Like  the  advent  of  the  night ; 

Colder,  colder,  colder  still, 

Upward  starts  a vapor  chill ; 

Strong  the  earthly  odor  grows,  — 

I smell  the  mould  above  the  rose  ! 

Welcome  Life  ! The  Spirit  strives  I 
Strength  returns,  and  hope  revives ; 
Cloudy  fears  and  shapes  forlorn 
Fly  like  shadows  at  the  morn, — 
O’er  the  earth  there  comes  a bloom  ; 
Sunny  light  for  sullen  gloom. 

Warm  perfume  for  vapor  cold,  — 

I smell  the  rose  above  the  mould  ! 


HOOD. 


DAYS  OF  MY  YOUTH. TRUE  PHILOSOPHY. 


79 


DAYS  OF  MY  YOUTH. 

Days  of  my  youth,  ye  have  glided  away ; 

Hairs  of  my  youth,  ye  are  frosted  and  gray  ; 

Eyes  of  my  youth,  your  keen  sight  is  no  more ; 
Cheeks  of  my  youth,  ye  are  furrowed  all  o’er  ; 
Strength  of  my  youth,  all  your  vigor  is  gone  ; 
Thought^  of  my  youth,  your  gay  visions  are  flown. 

Days  of  my  youth,  I wish  not  your  recall ; 

Hairs  of  my  youth,  I ’m  content  ye  should  fall ; 
Eyes  of  my  youth,  ye  much  evil  have  seen ; 

Cheeks  of  my  youth,  bathed  in  tears  have  ye  been  ; 
Thoughts  of  my  youth,  ye  have  led  me  astray ; 
Strength  of  my  youth,  why  lament  your  decay  ? 

Days  of  my  age,  ye  will  shortly  be  past ; 

Pains  of  my  age,  yet  a while  can  ye  last ; 

Joys  of  my  age,  in  true  wisdom  delight ; 

Eyes  of  my  age,  be  religion  your  light ; 

Thoughts  of  my  age,  dread  ye  not  the  cold  sod  ; 
Hopes  of  my  age,  be  ye  fixed  on  your  God. 

TUCKER. 


TRUE  PHILOSOPHY. 

With  sweet  flowers  opening  on  thy  sight  daily. 
Sing  as  the  birds  sing,  gladly  and  gayly. 

Think  not  of  autumn  sere,  winter’s  grim  shadows ; 
Sing  as  the  birds  sing  over  the  meadows. 

See  what  the  hour  reveals  fairly  and  truly,  — 
Not  what  the  cloud  conceals,  but  the  cloud  duly. 
Think  every  common  day  is  a good  granted ; 

Hail  every  trial  sent  as  a seed  planted. 


80 


SELECTIONS  IN  POETRY. 


Paint  not  the  tempest’s  hour  till  it  close  o’er  thee ; 
Trust  not  to  Fancy’s  power,  — have  it  before  thee. 
Seen  its  aurora-gleams,  felt  its  dark  terror. 

Then  to  thy  work  proceed,  fearless  of  error. 

God  sendeth  naught  in  vain,  gladness  or  sorrow : 
Strength  giveth  of  its  gain,  weakness  must  borrow. 
Tempest  and  summer  rain  give  the  tree  stature ; 
Each  one  who  skulks  the  pain  narrows  his  nature. 


“BLESSED  ABE  THEY  THAT  MOURN.” 

0,  DEEM  not  they  are  blest  alone 
Whose  lives  a peaceful  tenor  keep  ! 

The  Power  who  pities  man  has  shown 
A blessing  for  the  eyes  that  weep. 

The  light  of  smiles  shall  fill  again 
The  lids  that  overflow  with  tears ; 

And  weary  hours  of  woe  and  pain 
Are  promises  of  happier  years. 

There  is  a day  of  sunny  rest 

For  every  dark  and  troubled  night ; 

And  grief  may  bide  an  evening  guest, 
But  joy  shall  come  with  early  light. 

And  thou,  who  o’er  thy  friend’s  low  bier 
Sheddest  the  bitter  drops  like  rain, 

Hope  that  a brighter,  happier  sphere 
Will  give  him  to  thy  arms  again ! 

Nor  let  the  good  man’s  trust  depart, 
Though  life  its  common  gifts  deny, — 

Though,  with  a pierced  and  broken  heart, 
And  spurned  of  men,  he  goes  to  die. 


THE  HUMBLE-BEE. 


81 


For  God  has  marked  each  sorrowing  day, 
And  numbered  every  secret  tear ; 

And  Heaven’s  long  age  of  bliss  shall  pay 
For  all  his  children  suffer  here. 

BRYANT. 


THE  HUMBLE-BEE. 

Burly,  dozing  humble-bee. 

Where  thou  art  is  clime  for  me : 

Let  them  sail  for  Porto  Bique, 
Far-off  heats  through  seas  to  seek ; 

I will  follow  thee  alone. 

Thou  animated  torrid-zone ! 

Zigzag  steerer,  desert  cheerer. 

Let  me  chase  thy  waving  lines ; 
Keep  me  nearer,  me  thy  hearer. 
Singing  over  shrubs  and  vines. 

Insect  lover  of  the  sun, 

Joy  of  thy  dominion ! 

Sailor  of  the  atmosphere. 

Swimmer  through  the  waves  of  air ; 
Voyager  of  light  and  noon  ; 
Epicurean  of  J une  ; 

Wait,  I prithee,  till  I come 
Within  earshot  of  thy  hum,  — 

All  without  is  martyrdom ! 

When  the  south-wind,  in  May  days. 
With  a net  of  shining  haze 
Silvers  the  horizon  wall. 

And,  with  softness  touching  all, 

4^  F 


82 


SELECTIONS  IN  POETRY. 


Tints  the  human  countenance 
With  a color  of  romance, 

And,  infusing  subtle  heats. 

Turns  the  sod  to  violets. 

Thou,  in  sunny  solitudes. 

Rover  of  the  underwoods. 

The  green  silence  dost  displace 
With  thy  mellow,  breezy  bass. 

Hot  midsummer’s  petted  crone. 

Sweet  to  me  thy  drowsy  tone 
Tells  of  countless  sunny  hours. 

Long  days  and  solid  banks  of  flowers ; 
Of  gulfs  of  sweetness  without  bound 
In  Indian  wildernesses  found  ; 

Of  Syrian  peace,  immortal  leisure. 
Firmest  cheer,  and  bird-like  pleasure. 

Aught  unsavory  or  unclean 
Has  my  insect  never  seen ; 

But  violets  and  bilberry  bells. 
Maple-sap,  and  dafibdils, 

Grass  with  green-flag  half-mast  high. 
Succory  to  match  the  sky. 

Columbine  with  horn  of  honey, 
Scented  fern,  and  agrimony. 

Clover,  catchfly,  adder’s  tongue. 

And  brier  roses,  dwelt  among. 

All  beside  was  unknown  waste, 

All  was  picture  as  he  passed. 

Wiser  far  than  human  seer. 
Yellow-breeched  philosopher ! 


THE  BITTER  GOURD. 


83 


Seeing  only  what  is  fair, 

Sipping  only  what  is  sweet, 

Thou  dost  mock  at  fate  and  care. 
Leave  the  chaff,  and  take  the  wheat. 
When  the  fierce  north-eastern  blast 
Cools  sea  and  land  so  far  and  fast. 
Thou  already  slumberest  deep ; 

Woe  and  want  thou  canst  outsleep ; 
Want  and  woe,  which  torture  us, 

Thy  sleep  makes  ridiculous. 

EMERSON. 


THE  BITTER  GOURD. 

Lokman  the  Wise,  therefore  the  good  (for  wise 
Is  but  sage  good,  seeing  with  final  eyes). 

Was  slave  once  to  a lord,  jealous  though  kind, 

Who,  piqued  sometimes  at  the  man’s  master  mind, 
Gave  him,  one  day,  to  see  how  he  would  treat 
So  strange  a grace,  a bitter  gourd  to  eat. 

With  simplest  reverence,  and  no  surprise. 

The  sage  received  what  stretched  the  donor’s  eyes ; 

And  piece  by  piece,  as  though  it  had  been  food 
To  feast  and  gloat  on,  every  morsel  chewed ; 

And  so  stood  eating,  with  his  patient  beard. 

Till  all  the  nauseous  favor  disappeared. 

Vexed  and  confounded,  and  disposed  to  find 
Some  ground  of  scorn,  on  which  to  ease  his  mind, 

“ Lokman ! ” exclaimed  his  master,  — “in  God’s  name. 
How  can  a slave  himself  become  so  tame  ? 

Have  all  my  favors  been  bestowed  amiss  ? 

Or  could  not  brains  like  thine  have  saved  thee  this  ? ” 


84 


SELECTIONS  IN  POETRY. 


Calmly  stood  Lokman  still,  as  duty  stands,  — 

“ Have  I received,”  he  answered,  “ at  thine  hands 
Favors  so  sweet  they  went  to  mine  hearths  root. 
And  could  I not  accept  one  bitter  fruit  ? ” 

“ 0 Lokman ! ” said  his  lord  (and,  as  he  spoke, 
For  very  love  his  words  in  softness  broke), 

“ Take  but  this  favor  yet : — be  slave  no  more ; 
Be,  as  thou  art,  my  friend  and  counsellor ; 

0,  be ; nor  let  me  quit  thee,  self-abhorred  ; — 

’T  is  I that  am  the  slave,  and  thou  the  lord.” 

LEIGH  HUNT. 


SHE  CAME  AND  WENT. 

As  a twig  trembles,  which  a bird 
Lights  on  to  sing,  then  leaves  unbent, 
So  is  my  memory  thrilled  and  stirred ; 

I only  know  she  came  and  went. 

As  clasps  some  lake,  by  gusts  unriven, 
The  blue  dome’s  measureless  content, 
So  my  soul  held  that  moment’s  heaven ; 
I only  know  she  came  and  went. 

As,  at  one  bound,  our  swift  spring  heaps 
The  orchards  full  of  bloom  and  scent, 
So  clove  her  May  my  wintry  sleeps ; 

I only  know  she  came  and  went. 

An  angel  stood  and  met  my  gaze, 

Through  the  low  doorway  of  my  tent  : 
The  tent  is  struck,  the  vision  stays ; 

I only  know  she  came  and  went. 


REASONS  FOR  RISIBILITY. 


85 


O,  when  the  room  grows  slowly  dim, 

And  life’s  last  oil  is  nearly  spent, 

One  gush  of  light  these  eyes  will  brim. 
Only  to  think  she  came  and  went. 

LOWELL. 


REASONS  FOR  RISIBILITY, 

Sweet  coz  ! I ’m  happy  when  I can, 

I ’m  merry  while  I may ; 

For  life ’s  at  most  a narrow  span, 

At  best  a winter’s  day. 

If  care  could  make  the  sunbeam  wear 
A brighter,  warmer  hue. 

The  evening  star  shine  out  more  fair. 

The  blue  sky  look  more  blue, 

Then  I should  grow  a graver  man ; 

But,  since ’t  is  not  the  way, 

Sweet  coz  ! I ’m  happy  when  I can, 

And  merry  while  I may ! 

If  sighs  could  make  us  sin  the  less. 
Perchance  I were  not  glad ; 

If  mourning  were  the  sage’s  dress, 

My  garb  should  still  be  sad ; 

But,  since  the  angels’  wings  are  white, 
And  even  the  young  saints  smile,  — 
Since  virtue  wears  a brow  of  light, 

And  vice  a robe  of  guile,  — 

Since  laughter  is  not  under  ban. 

Nor  goodness  clad  in  gray. 

Sweet  coz ! I ’m  happy  when  I can. 

And  merry  while  I may  ! 


86 


SELECTIONS  IN  POETllT. 


I ’ve  seen  a bishop  dance  a reel, 

And  a sinner  fast  and  pray ; 

A knave  at  top  of  fortune’s  wheel, 

And  a good  man  cast  away. 

Wine  have  I seen  your  grave  ones  quaff 
Might  set  our  fleet  afloat, 

But  I never  heard  a hearty  laugh 
From  out  a villain’s  throat ; 

And  I never  knew  a mirthful  man 
Make  sad  a young  maid’s  day ; — 

So,  coz ! I ’m  happy  when  I can. 

And  merry  while  I may ! 

FITZGERALD. 


THE  USE  OF  FLOWERS. 

G on  might  have  bade  the  earth  bring  forth 
Enough  for  great  and  small,  — 

The  oak-tree  and  the  cedar-tree, 

Without  a flower  at  all. 

We  might  have  had  enough,  enough 
For  every  want  of  ours. 

For  luxury,  medicine  and  toil. 

And  yet  have  had  no  flowers. 

The  ore  within  the  mountain  mine 
Bequireth  none  to  grow ; 

Nor  doth  it  need  the  lotus-flower 
To  make  the  river  flow. 

The  clouds  might  give  abundant  rain, 

The  nightly  dews  might  fall. 

And  the  herb  that  keepeth  life  in  man 
Might  yet  have  drunk  them  all. 


THE  USE  OF  FLOWERS. 


87 


Then  wherefore,  wherefore  were  they  made, 
All  dyed  with  rainbow  light, 

All  fashioned  with  supremest  grace, 
Upspringing  day  and  night,  — 

Springing  in  valleys  green  and  low. 

And  on  the  mountains  high. 

And  in  the  silent  wilderness, 

Where  no  man  passes  by  ? 

Our  outward  life  requires  them  not,  — 

Then  wherefore  had  they  birth  ? 

To  minister  delight  to  man, 

To  beautify  the  earth ; 

To  comfort  man,  to  whisper  hope, 

Whene’er  his  faith  is  dim ; 

For  whoso  careth  for  the  flowers 
Will  much  more  care  for  him. 

MARY  HOWITT. 


88 


SELECTIONS  IN  POETRY. 


HYMN  TO  THE  FLOWERS. 

Day-stars  ! that  ope  your  eyes  with  morn,  to  twinkle 
From  rainbow  galaxies  of  earth’s  creation, 

And  dew-drops  on  her  holy  altars  sprinkle, 

As  a libation ! 

Ye  matin  worshippers ! who,  bending  lowly 
Before  the  uprisen  sun,  God’s  lidless  eye. 

Throw  from  your  chalices  a sweet  and  holy 
Incense  on  high ! 

Ye  bright  mosaics  ^ that  with  storied  beauty 
The  floor  of  Nature’s  temple  tessellate. 

What  numerous  emblems  of  instructive  duty 
Your  forms  create ! 


HYMN  TO  THE  FLOWERS. 


89 


’Neath  cloistered  boughs  each  floral  bell  that  swingeth, 
And  tolls  its  perfume  on  the  passing  air, 

Makes  Sabbath  in  the  fields,  and  ever  ringeth 
A call  to  prayer  ! 

Not  to  the  domes  where  crumbling  arch  and  column 
Attest  the  feebleness  of  mortal  hand ; 

But  to  that  fane,  most  catholic  and  solemn. 

Which  God  hath  planned ! 

To  that  cathedral,  boundless  as  our  wonder. 

Whose  quenchless  lamps  the  sun  and  moon  supply, 

Its  choir  the  winds  and  waves,  its  organ  thunder. 

Its  dome  the  sky ! 

There,  as  in  solitude  and  shade  I wander 

Through  the  lone  aisles,  or,  stretched  upon  the  sod, 

Awed  by  the  silence,  reverently  ponder 
The  ways  of  God, 

Your  voiceless  lips,  0 flowers  ! are  living  preachers, 
Each  cup  a pulpit,  and  each  leaf  a book. 

Supplying  to  my  fancy  numerous  teachers 
From  loneliest  nook ! 

Floral  apostles ! that,  in  dewy  splendor, 

“ Weep  without  woe,  and  blush  without  a crime,” 

0,  may  I deeply  learn,  and  ne’er  surrender, 

Your  lore  sublime ! 

“ Thou  wast  not,  Solomon,  in  all  thy  glory, 

Arrayed,”  the  lilies  cry,  “ in  robes  like  ours ! 

How  vain  your  grandeur ! Ah,  how  transitory 
Are  human  flowers ! ” 


90 


SELECTIONS  IN  POETRY. 


In  the  sweet-scented  pictures,  heavenly  Artist, 

With  which  thou  paintest  Nature’s  wide-spread  hall, 
What  a delightful  lesson  thou  impartest 
Of  love  to  all ! 

Not  useless  are  ye,  flowers ! though  made  for  pleasure, 
Blooming  o’er  field  and  wave  by  day  and  night ; 
From  every  source  your  sanction  bids  me  treasure 
Harmless  delight. 

Ephemeral  sages  ! what  instructors  hoary 

For  such  a world  of  thought  could  furnish  scope  ? 
Each  fading  calyx  a memento  mori, 

Yet  fount  of  hope ! 

Posthumous  glories ! angel-like  collection ! 

Upraised  from  seed  or  bulb  interred  in  earth, 

Ye  are  to  me  a type  of  resurrection 
And  second  birth. 

W'ere  I,  0 God  ! in  churchless  lands  remaining. 

Far  from  all  voice  of  teachers  or  divines, 

My  soul  would  find,  in  flowers  of  thy  ordaining. 
Priests,  sermons,  shrines! 

HORACE  SMITH. 


ON  POETRY. 

With  thine  compared,  0 sovereign  Poesy, 

Thy  sister  Arts’  divided  powers  how  faint ! 

For  each  combines  her  attributes  in  thee, 

Whose  voice  is  music,  and  whose  words  can  paint. 

TOWNSHEND. 


AUTUMN  FLOWERS. 


91 


AUTUMN  FLOWERS. 

Those  few  pale  autumn  flowers, 

How  beautiful  they  are  ! 

Than  all  that  went  before, 

Than  all  the  summer  store. 

How  lovelier  far ! 

And  why  ? They  are  the  last  — 

The  last ! the  last ! the  last ! 

0 ! by  that  little  word 
How  many  thoughts  are  stirred,  — 
That  sister  of  the  past ! 

Pale  flowers ! Pale,  perishing  flowers  ! 

Ye  ’re  types  of  precious  things  ; 
Types  of  those  bitter  moments, 

That  flit  like  life’s  enjoyments. 

On  rapid,  rapid  wings. 

Last  hours  with  parting  dear  ones 
(That  time  the  fastest  spends), 

Last  tears  in  silence  shed, 

Last  words  half  uttered. 

Last  looks  of  dying  friends. 

Who  but  would  fain  compress 
A life  into  a day. 

The  last  day  spent  with  one 
Who,  ere  the  morrow’s  sun. 

Must  leave  us,  and  for  aye  ? 

0,  precious,  precious  moments ! 

Pale  flowers ! ye  ’re  types  of  those  ; 


92 


SELECTIONS  IN  POETKY. 


The  saddest,  sweetest,  dearest. 

Because,  like  those,  the  nearest 
To  an  eternal  close. 

Pale  flowers ! Pale,  perishing  flowers ! 

I woo  your  gentle  breath,  — 

I leave  the  summer  rose 
For  younger,  blither  brows : — 

Tell  me  of  change  and  death  ! 

MRS.  SOUTHEY. 


GIVE. 

“IT  IS  MORE  BLESSED  TO  GIVE  THAN  TO  RECEIVE.” 

Give  prayers  : the  evening  hath  begun  ; 

Be  earlier  than  the  rising  sun : 

Remember  those  who  feel  the  rod ; 

Remember  those  who  know  not  God. 

His  hand  can  boundless  blessings  give  : 

Breathe  prayers  ; through  them  the  soul  shall  live. 

Give  alms  : the  needy  sink  with  pain  ; 

The  orphans  mourn,  the  crushed  complain. 

Give  freely : hoarded  gold  is  curst, 

A prey  to  robbers  and  to  rust. 

Christ,  through  his  poor,  a claim  doth  make ; 

Give  gladly,  for  thy  Saviour’s  sake. 

Give  books  : they  live  when  you  are  dead ; 

Light  on  the  darkened  mind  they  shed : 

Good  seed  they  sow,  from  age  to  age, 

Through  all  this  mortal  pilgrimage. 

They  nurse  the  germs  of  holy  trust ; 

They  wake  untired  when  you  are  dust. 


THE  BETTER  LAND. 


93 


Give  smiles  to  cheer  the  little  child,  ^ 

A stranger  on  this  thorny  wild ; 

It  bringeth  love,  its  guard  to  be,  — 

It,  helpless,  asketh  love  from  thee. 

Howe’er  by  fortune’s  gifts  unblest. 

Give  smiles  to  childhood’s  guileless  breast. 

Give  words,  kind  words,  to  those  who  err ; 
Eemorse  doth  need  a comforter. 

Though  in  temptation’s  wiles  they  fall, 
Condemn  not,  — we  are  sinners  all. 

With  the  sweet  charity  of  speech. 

Give  words  that  heal,  and  words  that  teach. 

Give  thought,  give  energy,  to  themes 
That  perish  not  like  folly’s  dreams. 

Hark  ! from  the  islands  of  the  sea. 

The  missionary  cries  to  thee ; 

To  aid  him  on  a heathen  soil. 

Give  thought,  give  energy,  give  toil. 

MRS.  SIGOURNEY. 


THE  BETTER  LAND. 

“ I HEAR  thee  speak  of  the  better  land. 

Thou  callest  its  children  a happy  band ; 

Mother  ! 0,  where  is  that  radiant  shore  ? 

Shall  we  not  seek  it,  and  weep  no  more  ? 

Is  it  where  the  flower  of  the  orange  blows. 

And  the  fire-flies  glance  through  the  myrtle  boughs  ? ” 
“Not  there,  not  there,  my  child ! ” 

“ Is  it  where  the  feathery  palm-trees  rise. 

And  the  date  grows  ripe  under  sunny  skies  ? 


94 


SELECTIONS  IN  POETRY. 


Or  ’ijflidst  the  green  islands  of  glittering  seas, 

Where  fragrant  forests  perfume  the  breeze, 

And  strange,  bright  birds,  on  their  starry  wings, 
l^ear  the  rich  hues  of  all  glorious  things  ? ” 

“ Not  there,  not  there,  my  child ! ” 

“ Is  it  far  away,  in  some  region  old, 

AVhere  the  rivers  wander  o’er  sands  of  gold  ? — 
Where  the  burning  rays  of  the  ruby  shine. 

And  the  diamond  lights  up  the  secret  mine. 

And  the  pearl  gleams  forth  from  the  coral  strand  ? 

Is  it  there,  sweet  mother,  that  better  land  ? ” 

“ Not  there,  not  there,  my  child ! ” 

“ Eye  hath  not  seen  it,  my  gentle  boy ! 

Ear  hath  not  heard  its  deep  songs  of  joy  ; 

Dreams  cannot  picture  a world  so  fair,  — 

Sorrow  and  death  may  not  enter  there ; 

Time  doth  not  breathe  on  its  fadeless  bloom, 

For  beyond  the  clouds,  and  beyond  the  tomb. 

It  is  there,  it  is  there,  my  child  ! ” 

MRS.  HEMANS. 


A PSALM  OF  LIFE. 

WHAT  THE  HEART  OF  THE  YOUNG  MAN  SAID  TO  THE  PSALMIST, 

Tell  me  not,  in  mournful  numbers, 

“ Life  is  but  an  empty  dream  ! ” 

For  the  soul  is  dead  that  slumbers. 

And  things  are  not  what  they  seem. 

Life  is  real ! Life  is  earnest ! 

x\nd  the  grave  is  not  its  goal ; 

“Dust  thou  art,  to  dust  returnest,” 

Was  not  spoken  of  the  soul. 


A PSALM  OF  LIFE. 


95 


Not  enjoyment,  and  not  sorrow, 

Is  our  destined  end  or  way ; 

But  to  act,  that  each  to-morrow 
Find  us  further  than  to-day. 

Art  is  long,  and  Time  is  fleeting ; 

And  our  hearts,  though  stout  and  brave, 
Still,  like  muffled  drums,  are  beating 
Funeral  marches  to  the  grave. 

In  the  world’s  broad  field  of  battle. 

In  the  bivouac  of  Life,  * 

Be  not  like  dumb,  driven  cattle  ! 

Be  a hero  in  the  strife  ! 

Trust  no  Future,  howe’er  pleasant ! 

Let  the  dead  Past  bury  its  dead ! 

Act,  — act  in  the  living  present. 

Heart  within,  and  God  o’erhead  ! 

Lives  of  great  men  all  remind  us 
We  can  make  our  lives  sublime. 

And,  departing,  leave  behind  us 
Footprints  on  the  sands  of  time  ! 

Footprints,  that  perhaps  another. 

Sailing  o’er  life’s  solemn  main, 

A forlorn  and  shipwrecked  brother. 

Seeing,  shall  take  heart  again. 

Let  us,  then,  be  up  and  doing. 

With  a heart  for  any  fate  ; 

Still  achieving,  still  pursuing. 

Learn  to  labor  and  to  wait. 


LONGFELLOW. 


96 


SELECTIONS  IN  POETRY. 


ODE  TO  DUTY. 

Stern  daughter  of  the  voice  of  God  ! 

0 Duty ! if  that  name  thou  love, 

Who  art  a light  to  guide,  a rod 
To  check  the  erring,  and  reprove ; 

Thou,  who  art  victory  and  law 
When  empty  terrors  overawe. 

From  vain  temptations  dost  set  free. 

And  calm’st  the  weary  strife  of  frail  humanity  ! 

There  are  who  ask  not  if  thine  eye 
Be  on  them ; who,  in  love  and  truth. 

Where  no  misgiving  is,  rely 
Upon  the  genial  sense  of  youth ; 

Glad  hearts  ! without  reproach  or  blot ; 

Who  do  thy  work  and  know  it  not ; 

Long  may  the  kindly  impulse  last ! 

But  thou,  if  they  should  totter,  teach  them  to  stand  first 

Serene  will  be  our  days  and  bright. 

And  happy  will  our  nature  be. 

When  love  is  an  unerring  light. 

And  joy  its  own  security. 

And  they  a blissful  course  may  hold. 

Even  now,  who,  not  unwisely  bold. 

Live  in  the  spirit  of  this  creed ; 

Yet  find  that  other  strength,  according  to  their  need. 

I,  loving  freedom,  and  untried. 

No  sport  of  every  random  gust. 

Yet  being  to  myself  a guide. 

Too  blindly  have  reposed  my  trust ; 


ODE  TO  DUTY. 


97 


And  oft,  when  in  my  heart  was  heard 
Thy  timely  mandate,  I deferred 
The  task,  in  smoother  walks  to  stray; 

But  thee  I now  would  serve  more  strictly,  if  I may.  ^ 

Through  no  disturbance  of  my  soul. 

Or  strong  compunction  in  me  wrought, 

I supplicate  for  thy  control ; 

But  in  the  quietness  of  thought : 

Me  this  unchartered  freedom  tires ; 

I feel  the  weight  of  chance  desires ; 

My  hopes  no  more  must  change  their  name, 

I long  for  a repose  that  ever  is  the  same. 

Stern  Lawgiver ! yet  thou  dost  wear 
The  Godhead’s  most  benignant  grace  ; 

Nor  know  we  anything  so  fair 
As  is  the  smile  upon  thy  face ; 

Flowers  laugh  before  thee  on  their  beds ; 

And  Fragrance  in  thy  footing  treads ; 

Thou  dost  preserve  the  stars  from  wrong ; 

And  the  most  ancient  heavens,  through  thee,  are  fresh  and 
strong. 

To  humbler  functions,  awful  Power  ! 

I call  thee ; I myself  commend 
Unto  thy  guidance,  from  thjs  hour ; 

0,  let  my  weakness  have  an  end  I 
Give  unto  me,  made  lowly  wise, 

The  spirit  of  self-sacrifice ; 

The  confidence  of  reason  give ; 

And  in  the  light  of  truth  thy  bondman  let  me  live ! 

WORDSWORTH. 


5 


G 


98 


SELECTIONS  IN  POETRY. 


SUMMER  HEvVT. 

All-conquering  Heat,  0,  intermit  thy  wrath ! 

And  on  my  throbbing  temples  potent  thus 
Beam  not  so  fierce  ! incessant  still  you  fiow, 

And  still  another  fervent  flood  succeeds, 

Poured  on  the  head  profuse.  In  vain  I sigh, 

And  restless  turn,  and  look  around  for  night ; 

Night  is  far  olF ; and  hotter  hours  approach. 

Thrice  happy  he,  who,  on  the  sunless  side 
Of  a romantic  mountain,  forest-crowned. 

Beneath  the  whole  collected  shade  reclines ; 

Or  in  the  gelid  caverns,  woodbine-wrought. 

And  fresh  bedewed  with  ever-spouting  streams, 

Sits  coolly  calm  ; while  all  the  world  without, 

Unsatisfied  and  sick,  tosses  in  noon. 

Emblem  instructive  of  the  virtuous  man, 

Who  keeps  his  tempered  mind  serene  and  pure, 

And  every  passion  aptly  harmonized, 

Amid  a jarring  world  with  vice  inflamed. 

Welcome,  ye  shades  I ye  bowery  thickets,  hail ! 

Ye  lofty  pines  ! ye  venerable  oaks  ! 

Ye  ashes  wild,  resounding  o’er  the  steep  ! 

Delicious  is  your  shelter  to  the  soul. 

As  to  the  hunted  hart  the  sallying  spring. 

Or  stream  full  flowing,  that  his  swelling  sides 
Laves,  as  he  floats  along  the  herbaged  brink. 

Cool,  through  the  nerves,  your  pleasing  comfort  glides ; 
The  heart  beats  glad  ; the  fresh-expanded  eye 
And  ear  resume  their  watch  ; tfle  sinews  knit ; 

And  life  shoots  swift  through  all  the  lightened  limbs. 

THOMSON. 


FORGIVENESS. 


99 


FORGIVENESS. 

O,  WRING  the  black  drop  from  your  heart, 
Before  you  kneel  in  prayer ! 

You  do  but  mock  the  Mercy  Seat, 

If  hatred  linger  there. 

How  can  you  ask  offended  Heaven 
To  clear  your  soul’s  deep  debt. 

If  ’neath  your  ban  lies  brother  man  ? — 
Forgive,  if  not  forget ! 

Remember,  sons  of  earth  are  born 
To  sorrow  and  to  sin ; 

That  poor  and  rich  to  dust  return, 

A few  brief  years  within. 

For  guests  that  crowd  round  life’s  strange  board 
Joy’s  cups  are  thinly  set ; 

To  poison  them  were  fearful  shame,  — 

Forgive,  if  not  forget ! 

In  error  or  in  guiltiness 

If  men  have  wrought  thee  wrong, 

From  ways  of  wrath  thy  steps  restrain, 

In  patience  pass  along. 

Should  retribution  be  thy  right. 

He  will  avenge  thee  yet. 

Who  mortal  ill  repayeth  still,  — 

Forgive,  if  not  forget ! 

How  pleasant,  when  our  orisons 
We  breathe  at  eventide. 

To  feel  the  heart  untenanted 
By  anger  or  by  pride ! 


100 


SELECTIONS  IN  POETRY. 


0,  blessed  are  the  merciful, 

Whose  hopes  on  high  arc  set ! 

Like  them,  release  thy  soul  in  peace,  — 
Forgive,  and  thou  ’It  forget  ! 

KENNEDY. 


HANNIBAL’S  OATH. 

And  the  night  was  dark  and  calm, 

There  was  not  a breath  of  air ; 

The  leaves  of  the  grove  were  still, 

As  the  presence  of  death  was  there ; — 

Only  a moaning  sound 

Came  from  the  distant  sea ; 

It  was  as  if,  like  life. 

It  had  no  tranquillity. 

A warrior  and  a child 

Passed  through  the  sacred  wood. 

Which,  like  a mystery. 

Around  the  temple  stood. 

The  warrior’s  brow  was  worn 

With  the  weight  of  casque  and  plume, 

And  sun-burnt  was  his  cheek. 

And  his  eye  and  brow  were  gloom. 

The  child  was  young  and  fair. 

But  the  forehead  large  and  high. 

And  the  dark  eyes’  flashing  light. 

Seemed  to  feel  their  destiny. 

They  entered  in  the  temple. 

And  stood  before  the  shrine ; 


MAN. 


101 


It  streamed  with  the  victim’s  blood, 

With  incense  and  with  wine. 

The  ground  rocked  beneath  their  feet, 

The  thunder  shook  the  dome ; 

But  the  boj  stood  firm,  and  swore 
Eternal  hate  to  Borne. 

There ’s  a page  in  history 

O’er  which  tears  of  blood  were  wept, 

And  that  page  is  the  record 

How  that  oath  of  hate  was  kept. 

MISS  LANDO.^. 


MAN. 

For  us  the  winds  do  blow. 

The  earth  doth  rest,  heaven  move,  and  fountains  flow. 
Nothing  we  see  but  means  our  good, 

A s our  delight,  or  as  our  treasure ; 

The  whole  is  either  our  cupboard  of  food. 

Or  cabinet  of  pleasure. 

The  stars  have  us  to  bed ; 

Night  draws  the  curtain,  which  the  sun  withdraws. 
Music  and  light  attend  our  head. 

All  things  unto  our  flesh  are  kind. 

In  their  descent  and  being ; to  our  mind. 

In  their  ascent  and  cause. 

Each  thing  is  full  of  duty  : 

Waters  united  are  our  navigation ; 

Distinguished,  our  habitation ; 

Below^  our  drink ; above,  our  meat ; 


102 


SELECTIONS  IN  POETRY. 


Both  are  our  cleanliness.  Hath  one  such  beauty  ? 
Then  how  are  all  things  neat ! 

More  servants  wait  on  man 
Than  he  ’ll  take  notice  of.  In  every  path 
He  treads  down  that  which  doth  befriend  him 
When  sickness  makes  him  pale  and  wan. 

O,  mighty  love ! Man  is  one  world,  and  hath 
Another  to  attend  him. 

Since,  then,  my  God,  thou  hast 
So  brave  a palace  built,  0,  dwell  in  it. 

That  it  may  dwell  with  thee,  at  last  ! 

Till  then,  afford  us  so  much  wit, 

That,  as  the  world  serves  us,  we  may  serve  thee ; 
And  both  thy  servants  be. 

HERBERT. 


THE  DAFFODILS. 

I WANDERED  loncly  as  a cloud 

That  floats  on  high  o’er  vales  and  hills, 
When  all  at  once  I saw  a crowd, 

A host  of  golden  daffodils  ,* 

Beside  the  lake,  beside  the  trees. 
Fluttering  and  dancing  in  the  breeze. 

Continuous  as  the  stars  that  shine 
And  twinkle  on  the  milky  way. 

They  stretched  in  never-ending  line 
Along  the  margin  of  a bay ; 

Ten  thousand  saw  I at  a glance. 

Tossing  their  heads  in  sprightly  dance. 


CORONACH. 


103 


The  waves  beside  them  danced,  but  they 
Outdid  the  sparkling  waves  in  glee ; — 
A poet  could  not  but  be  gay, 

In  such  a jocund  company  : 

I gazed  — and  gazed  — but  little  thought 
What  wealth  that  show  to  me  had  brought. 

For  oft,  when  on  my  couch  I lie. 

In  vacant  or  in  pensive  mood, 

They  flash  upon  that  inward  eye 
Which  is  the  bliss  of  solitude, 

And  then  my  heart  with  pleasure  fills. 
And  dances  with  the  daffodils. 

WORDSWORTH. 


CORONACH.’^ 

He  is  gone  on  the  mountain, 

He  is  lost  to  the  forest. 

Like  a summer-dried  fountain. 

When  our  need  was  the  sorest. 
The  fount,  reappearing. 

From  the  rain-drops  shall  borrow ; 
But  to  us  comes  no  cheering. 

To  Duncan  no  morrow ! 

The  hand  of  the  reaper 

Takes  the  ears  that  are  hoary. 

But  the  voice  of  the  weeper 
Wails  manhood  in  glory ; 

The  autumn  winds,  rushing. 

Waft  the  leaves  that  are  serest. 
But  our  flower  was  in  flushing 
When  blighting  was  nearest. 


* Funeral  song. 


104 


SELECTIONS  IN  POETRY. 


Fleet  foot  on  the  corei,^ 

Sage  counsel  in  cumber, 

Red  hand  in  the  foray, 

How  sound  is  thy  slumber ! 

Like  the  dew  on  the  mountain. 

Like  the  foam  on  the  river. 

Like  the  bubble  on  the  fountain. 
Thou  art  gone,  and  forever ! 

SCOTT. 


A PRAYER. 

Like  the  low  murmur  of  the  secret  stream. 

Which  through  dark  alders  winds  its  shaded  way, 
]\Iy  suppliant  voice  is  heard.  Ah ! do  not  deem 
That  on  vain  toys  I throw  my  hours  away. 

In  the  recesses  of  the  forest  vale. 

On  the  wild  mountain,  on  the  verdant  sod. 

When  the  fresh  breezes  of  the  morn  prevail, 

I wander  lone,  communing  with  my  God. 

When  the  faint  sickness  of  a wounded  heart 

Creeps  in  cold  shudderings  through  my  sinking  frame, 
I turn  to  Thee ! that  holy  peace  impart. 

Which  soothes  the  invokers  of  Thy  awful  name ! 

0,  all-pervading  Spirit ! sacred  beam ! 

Parent  of  life  and  light ! Eternal  power  ! 

Grant  me  through  obvious  clouds  one  transient  gleam 
Of  Thy  bright  essence,  in  my  dying  hour  ! 

BECKFORD. 

* The  hollow  side  of  the  hill,  where  game  usually  lies. 


DEATH  AND  THE  WARRIOR. 


105 


DEATH  AND  THE  WAERIOR. 

“ Ay,  warrior,  arm  ! and  wear  thy  plume 
On  a proud  and  fearless  brow ! 

I am  the  lord  of  the  lonely  tomb, 

And  a mightier  one  than  thou ! 

“ Bid  thy  soul’s  love  farewell,  young  chief. 

Bid  her  a long  farewell ! 

Like  the  morning’s  dew  shall  pass  that  grief,  — 
Thou  comest  with  me  to  dwell ! 

“ Thy  bark  may  rush  through  the  foaming  deep, 
Thy  steed  o’er  the  breezy  hill ; 

But  they  bear  thee  on  to  a place  of  sleep 
Narrow,  and  cold,  and  chill ! ” 

“Was  the  voice  I heard  thy  voice,  0 Death  ? 
And  is  thy  day  so  near  ? 

Then  on  the  field  shall  my  life’s  last  breath 
Mingle  with  victory’s  cheer  I 
5^ 


106 


SELECTIONS  IN  POETRY. 


“ Banners  shall  float,  with  the  trumpet’s  note, 
Above  me  as  I die  ! 

And  the  palm-tree  wave  o’er  my  noble  grave, 
Under  the  Syrian  sky. 

“ High  hearts  shall  burn  in  the  royal  hall. 

When  the  minstrel  names  that  spot ; 

And  the  eyes  I love  shall  weep  my  fall,  — 
Death,  Death ! I fear  thee  not ! ” 

“ Warrior  ! thou  bearest  a haughty  heart ! 

But  I can  bend  its  pride ! 

How  should’st  thou  know  that  thy  soul  will  part 
In  the  hour  of  victory’s  tide  ? 

“ It  may  be  far  from  thy  steel-clad  bands, 

That  I shall  make  thee  mine ; 

It  may  be  lone  on  the  desert  sands, 

Where  men  for  fountains  pine  ! 

“ It  may  be  deep,  amidst  heavy  chains, 

In  some  strong  Paynim  hold ; 

I have  slow,  dull  steps,  and  lingering  pains, 
Wherewith  to  tame  the  bold ! ” 

Death,  Death ! I go  to  a doom  unblest, 

If  this  indeed  must  be  ; 

But  the  cross  is  bound  upon  my  breast. 

And  I may  not  shrink  for  thee ! 

‘‘  Sound,  clarion,  sound ! — for  my  vows  are  given 
To  the  cause  of  the  holy  shrine ; 

I bow  my  soul  to  the  will  of  Heaven, 

0 Death ! and  not  to  thine ! ” 


MRS.  HEMANS. 


AN  ANGEL  IN  THE  HOUSE.  — THE  GRASSHOPPER.  107 


AN  ANGEL  IN  THE  HOUSE. 

How  sweet  it  were,  if,  without  feeble  fright. 

Or  dying  of  the  dreadful,  beauteous  sight. 

An  angel  came  to  us,  and  we  could  bear 
To  see  him  issue  from  the  silent  air. 

At  evening,  in  our  room,  and  bend  on  ours 
His  divine  eyes,  and  bring  us  from  his  bowers 
News  of  dear  friends,  and  children  who  have  never 
Been  dead  indeed,  as  we  shall  know  forever. 

Alas ! we  think  not  that  we  daily  see 
About  our  hearths  angels  that  are  to  be. 

Or  may  be,  if  they  will,  and  we  prepare 
Their  souls  and  ours  to  meet  in  happy  air,  — 

A child,  a friend,  a wife,  whose  soft  heart  sings 
In  unison  with  ours,  breeding  its  future  wings. 

LEIGH  HUNT. 


THE  GRASSHOPPER. 

Happy  insect ! what  can  be 
In  happiness  compared  to  thee  ? 

Fed  with  nourishment  divine. 

The  dewy  morning’s  gentle  wine  ! 
Nature  waits  upon  thee  still, 

And  thy  verdant  cup  doth  fill ; 

’T  is  filled  wherever  thou  dost  tread. 
Nature’s  self ’s  thy  Ganymede. 

Thou  dost  drink,  and  dance,  and  sing, 
Happier  than  the  happiest  king ! 

All  the  fields  which  thou  dost  see, 

All  the  plants,  belong  to  thee ; 


108 


SELECTIONS  IN  POETRY. 


All  that  summer  hours  produce, 

Fertile  made  with  early  juice. 

Mail  for  thee  does  sow  and  plough ; 

Farmer  he,  and  landlord  thou  ! 

Thou  dost  innocently  joy, 

Nor  does  thy  luxury  destroy ; 

The  shepherd  gladly  heareth  thee, 

More  harmonious  than  he. 

Thee  country  hinds  with  gladness  hear. 
Prophet  of  the  ripened  year  ! 

Thee  Phoebus  loves,  and  does  inspire ; 

Phoebus  is  himself  thy  sire. 

To  thee,  of  all  things  upon  earth, 

.Life  is  no  longer  than  thy  mirth. 

Happy  insect ! happy  thou 
Dost  neither  age  nor  winter  know ; 

But,  when  thou  ’st  drunk,  and  danced,  and  sung 
Thy  fill,  the  flowery  leaves  among. 

Sated  with  thy  summer  feast. 

Thou  retir’st  to  endless  rest.  ' 

COWLEY. 


THE  AUTHOR’S  LAST  VERSES. 

You  ’vE  woven  roses  round  my  way. 
And  gladdened  all  my  being ; 

How  much  I thank  you,  none  can  say. 
Save  only  the  All-seeing. 

May  he  who  gave  this  lovely  gift. 

This  love  of  lovely  doings. 

Be  with  you  wheresoe’er  you  go. 

In  every  hope’s  pursuings ! 


A PHANTOM  OF  DELIGHT. 


109 


I ’m  going  through  the  eternal  gates, 

Ere  June’s  sweet  roses  blow  ! 

Death’s  lovely  angel  leads  me  there, 

And  it  is  sweet  to  go. 

MRS.  OSGOOU. 


PHANTOM  OF  DELIGHT. 

She  was  a phantom  of  delight. 

When  first  she  gleamed  upon  my  sight ; 

A lovely  apparition,  sent 
To  be  a moment’s  ornament ; 

Her  eyes  as  stars  of  twilight  fair  ; 

Like  twilight’s,  too,  her  dusky  hair ; 

But  all  things  else  about  her  drawn 
From  May- time  and  the  cheerful  dawn  ; 

A dancing  shape,  an  image  gay. 

To  haunt,  to  startle,  and  waylay. 

I saw  her  upon  nearer  view, 

A spirit,  yet  a woman  too  ! 

Her  household  motions  light  and  free. 

And  steps  of  virgin  liberty ; 

A countenance  in  which  did  meet 
Sweet  records,  promises  as  sweet ; 

A creature  not  too  bright  or  good 
For  human  nature’s  daily  food ; 

For  transient  sorrows,  simple  wiles. 

Praise,  blame,  love,  kisses,  tears  and  smiles. 

And  now  I see,  with  eye  serene. 

The  very  pulse  of  the  machine  ; 

A being  breathing  thoughtful  breath, 

A traveller  between  life  and  death  ; 


110 


SELECTIONS  IN  POETRY. 


The  reason  firm,  the  temperate  will, 
Endurance,  foresight,  strength  and  skill ; 

A perfect  woman,  nobly  planned 
To  warn,  to  comfort,  and  command ; ' ' 

And  yet  a spirit  still,  and  bright 
With  something  of  an  angel  light. 

WORDSWORTH. 


FAREWELL  TO  RIVILIN. 

Beautiful  river ! goldenly  shining 

Where  with  thee  cistus  and  woodbines  are  twinin^^^ 

O 

(Birklands  around  thee,  mountains  above  thee), 
Bivilin  wildest ! do  I not  love  thee  ? 

Why  do  I love  thee,  heart-breaking  river  ? 

Love  thee  and  leave  thee,  — leave  thee  forever  ? 
Never  to  see  thee,  where  the  storms  greet  thee ! 
Never  to  hear  thee,  rushing  to  meet  me ! 

Never  to  hail  thee,  joyfully  chiming. 

Beauty  is  music,  sister  of  Wiming  ! 

Playfully  mingling  laughter  and  sadness, 
Bibbledin’s  sister,  sad  in  thy  gladness. 

Why  must  I leave  thee,  mournfully  sighing 
Man  is  a shadow  ? Biver  undying ! 

Dreamlike  he  passeth,  cloud-like  he  wasteth, 

E’en  as  a shadow  over  thee  hasteth. 

0,  when  thy  poet,  weary,  reposes, 

Coffined  in  slander,  far  from  thy  roses. 

Tell  all  thy  pilgrims,  heart-breaking  river. 

Tell  them  I loved  thee,  — love  thee  forever ! 


THE  WINDS. 


Ill 


Yes,  for  the  spirit  blooms  ever  vernal ; 

River  of  beauty ! love  is  eternal ; 

While  the  rock  reeleth,  storm-struck  and  riven, 
Safe  is  the  fountain  flowing  from  heaven. 

There  wilt  thou  hail  me,  joyfully  chiming, 

Reauty  is  music,  sister  of  Wiming ! 

Homed  with  the  angels,  hasten  to  greet  me. 

Glad  is  the  heath-flower,  glowing  to  meet  thee. 

EBENEZER  ELLIOT. 


THE  WINDS. 

Ye  winds,  ye  unseen  currents  of  the  air. 

Softly  ye  played  a few  brief  hours  ago ; 

Ye  bore  the  murmuring  bee ; ye  tossed  the  hair 
O’er  maiden  cheeks,  that  took  a fresher  glow ; 

Ye  rolled  the  round  white  cloud  through  depths  of  blue ; 
Ye  shook  from  shaded  flowers  the  lingering  dew ; 

Before  you  the  catalpa’s  blossoms  flew, 

Light  blossoms,  dropping  on  the  grass  like  snow. 

How  are  ye  changed ! Ye  take  the  cataract’s  sound ; 

Ye  take  the  whirlpool’s  fury  and  its  might ; 

The  mountain  shudders  as  ye  sweep  the  ground ; 

The  valley  woods  lie  prone  beneath  your  flight. 

The  clouds  before  you  shoot  like  eagles  past ; 

The  homes  of  men  are  rocking  in  your  blast ; 

Ye  lift  the  roofs  like  autumn  leaves,  and  cast 
Skyward  the  whirling  fragments  out  of  sight. 

The  weary  fowls  of  heaven  make  wing  in  vain. 

To  scape  your  wrath  ; ye  seize  and  dash  them  dead. 
Against  the  earth  ye  drive  the  roaring  rain ; 

The  harvest  field  becomes  a river’s  bed ; 


112 


SELECTIONS  IN  POETRY. 


And  torrents  tumble  from  the  hills  around ; 

Plains  turn  to  lakes,  and  villages  are  drowned ; 

And  wailing  voices,  midst  the  tempest’s  sound, 

Ilise,  as  the  rushing  waters  swell  and  spread. 

Ye  dart  upon  the  deep ; and  straight  is  heard 
A wdlder  roar,  and  men  grow  pale,  and  pray : 

Ye  fling  its  floods  around  you,  aswi  bird 

Flings  o’er  his  shivering  plumes  the  fountain’s  spray. 

See  ! to  the  breaking  mast  the  sailor  clings ; 

Ye  scoop  the  ocean  to  its  briny  springs. 

And  take  the  mountain  billow  on  your  wings, 

And  pile  the  wreck  of  navies  round  the  bay. 

Why  rage  ye  thus  ? — no  strife  for  liberty 

Has  made  you  mad ; no  tyrant,  strong  through  fear. 

Has  chained  your  pinions  till  ye  wrenched  them  free. 
And  rushed  into  the  unmeasured  atmosphere : 

For  ye  were  born  in  freedom  where  ye  blow ; 

Free  o’er  the  mighty  deep  to  come  and  go ; 

Earth’s  solemn  woods  were  yours,  her  wastes  of  snow. 
Her  isles  where  summer  blossoms  all  the  year. 

0,  ye  wild  winds ! a mightier  Power  than  yours 
In  chains  upon  the  shore  of  Europe  lies ; 

The  sceptred  throng,  whose  fetters  he  endures, 

Watch  his  mute  throes  with  terror  in  their  eyes ; 

And  armed  warriors  all  around  him  stand, 

And,  as  he  struggles,  tighten  every  band. 

And  lift  the  heavy  spear,  with  threatening  hand. 

To  pierce  the  victim,  should  he  strive  to  rise. 

Yet  0 ! when  that  wronged  Spirit  of  our  race 

Shall  break,  as  soon  he  must,  his  long- worn  chains, 


SONNET  TO  WORDSWORTH. 


113 


And  leap  in  freedom  from  his  prison-place, 

Lord  of  his  ancient  hills  and  fruitful  plains, 

Let  him  not  rise,  like  these  mad  winds  of  air. 

To  waste  the  loveliness  that  time  could  spare. 

To  fill  the  earth  with  woe,  and  blot  her  fair 

Unconscious  breast  with  blood  from  human  veins ! 

But  may  he  like  the  spring-time  come  abroad. 

Who  crumbles  winter’s  gyves  with  gentle  might. 
When  in  the  genial  breeze,  the  breath  of  God, 

Come  spouting  up  the  unsealed  springs  to  light ; 
Flowers  start  from  their  dark  prisons  at  his  feet. 

The  woods,  long  dumb,  awake  to  hymnings  sweet. 
And  morn  and  eve,  whose  glimmerings  almost  meet. 
Crowd  back  to  narrow  bounds  the  ancient  night. 

BRYANT 


SONNET  TO  WORDSWOETH. 

There  have  been  poets  that  in  verse  display 
The  elemental  forms  of  human  passions : 

Poets  have  been,  to  whom  the  fickle  fashions, 

And  all  the  wilful  humors  of  the  day. 

Have  furnished  matter  for  a polished  lay : 

And  many  are  the  smooth  elaborate  tribe 
Who,  emulous  of  thee,  the  shape  describe, 

And  fain  would  every  shifting  hue  portray, 

Of  restless  Nature.  But  thou,  mighty  seer  ^ 

’T  is  thine  to  celebrate  the  thoughts  that  make 
The  life  of  souls  ; the  truths  for  whose  sweet  sake 
We  to  ourselves  and  to  our  God  are  dear. 

Of  Nature’s  inner  shrine  thou  art  the  priest, 

Where  most  she  works  when  we  perceive  her  least. 

HARTLEY  COLERIDGE. 
H 


114 


SELECTIONS  IN  POETRY. 


ADORATION  AMID  NATURAL  SCENES. 

How  beautiful  this  dome  of  sky ! 

And  the  vast  hills,  in  fluctuation  fixed 

At  Thy  command,  how  awful ! Shall  the  soul, 

Human  and  rational,  report  of  Thee 

Even  less  than  these  ? Be  mute  who  will,  who  can, 

Yet  I will  praise  Thee  with  impassioned  voice  ; 

My  lips,  that  may  forget  Thee  in  the  crowd. 

Cannot  forget  Thee  here ; where  Thou  hast  built, 
For  Thy  own  glory,  in  the  wilderness. 

Me  didst  Thou  constitute  a priest  of  thine. 

In  such  a temple  as  we  now  behold 
Beared  for  Thy  presence ; therefore  am  I bound 
To  worship,  here, — and  everywhere,  — as  one 
Not  doomed  to  ignorance,  though  forced  to  tread, 
From  childhood  up,  the  ways  of  poverty ; 

From  unreflecting  ignorance  preserved. 

And  from  debasement  rescued.  By  Thy  grace 
The  particle  divine  remained  unquenched  ; 

And,  ’mid  the  wild  weeds  of  a rugged  soil. 

Thy  bounty  caused  to  flourish  deathless  flowers, 
From  Paradise  transplanted ; wintry  age 
Impends ; the  frost  will  gather  round  my  heart ; 
And,  if  they  wither,  I am  worse  than  dead ! 

Come,  labor,  when  the  worn-out  frame  requires 
Perpetual  sabbath ; come,  disease  and  want. 

And  sad  exclusion  through  decay  of  sense  ; 

But  leave  me  unabated  trust  in  Thee  ; 

And  let  Thy  favor,  to  the  end  of  life. 

Inspire  me  with  ability  to  seek 
Bepose  and  hope  among  eternal  things,  — 


ADORATION  AMID  NATURAL  SCENES. 


115 


Father  of  heaven  and  earth  ! and  I am  rich, 

And  will  possess  my  portion  in  content. 

And  what  are  things  eternal  ? Powers  depart, 
Possessions  vanish,  and  opinions  change. 

And  passions  hold  a fluctuating  seat : 

But,  by  the  storms  of  circumstance  unshaken. 

And  subject  neither  to  eclipse  nor  wane. 

Duty  exists ; — immutably  survive, 

For  our  support,  the  measures  and  the  forms 
Which  an  abstract  Intelligence  supplies, 

Whose  kingdom  is  where  time  and  space  are  not : 

Of  other  converse,  which  mind,  soul  and  heart, 

Bo  with  united  urgency  require. 

What  more,  that  may  not  perish  ? Thou,  dread  Source, 
Prime,  self-existing  Cause  and  End  of  all, 

That,  in  the  scale  of  being,  fill  their  place. 

Above  our  human  region,  or  below, 

Set  and  sustained ; — Thou,  — who  didst  wrap  the  cloud 
Of  infancy  around  us,  that  Thyself, 

Therein,  with  our  simplicity  a while 

Might’st  hold,  on  earth,  communion  undisturbed,  — 

Who  from  the  anarchy  of  dreaming  sleep. 

Or  from  its  death-like  void,  with  punctual  care. 

And  touch  as  gentle  as  the  morning  light, 

Bestor’st  us  daily  to  the  powers  of  sense. 

And  reason’s  steadfast  rule,  — Thou,  Thou  alone 
Art  everlasting. 

This  universe  shall  pass  away,  — a work 
Glorious,  because  the  shadow  of  Thy  might,  — 

A step,  or  link,  for  intercourse  with  Thee. 

Ah ! if  the  time  must  come,  in  which  my  feet 


116 


SELECTIONS  IN  POETRY. 


No  more  shall  stray  where  meditation  leads, 

By  flowing  stream,  through  wood,  or  craggy  wild, 
Loved  haunts  like  these,  the  unimprisoned  mind 
May  yet  have  scope  to  range  among  her  own. 

Her  thoughts,  her  images,  her  high  desires. 

If  the  dear  faculty  of  sight  should  fail, 

Still  it  may  be  allowed  me  to  remember 
What  visionary  powers  of  eye  and  soul. 

In  youth,  were  mine  ; when,  stationed  on  the  top 
Of  some  huge  hill,  expectant,  I beheld 
The  sun  rise  up,  from  distant  climes  returned. 
Darkness  to  chase,  and  sleep,  and  bring  the  day. 
His  bounteous  gift ! or  saw  him  towards  the  deep 
Sink,  with  a retinue  of  flaming  clouds 
Attended ! Then  my  spirit  was  entranced 
With  joy  exalted  to  beatitude  ; 

The  measure  of  my  soul  was  filled  with  bliss, 

And  holiest  love ; as  earth,  sea,  air,  with  light. 
With  pomp,  with  glory,  with  magnificence  ! 

WORDSWORTH. 


‘‘0!  STEAL  NOT  THOU  MY  FAITH  AWAY.” 

0 ! STEAL  not  thou  my  faith  away. 

Nor  tempt  to  doubt  a lowly  mind  ; 

Make  all  that  earth  can  yield  thy  prey, 

But  leave  this  heavenly  gift  behind. 

Our  hope  is  but  the  sea-boy’s  dream, 

When  loud  winds  rise  in  wrath  and  gloom ; 
Our  life,  — a faint  and  fitful  beam. 

That  lights  us  to  the  cold,  dark  tomb. 


IMITATED  FROM  THE  PERSIAN.  117 

Yet  since,  as  one  from  heaven  has  said, 

There  lies  beyond  that  dreary  bourn 

A region  where  the  faithful  dead 
Eternally  forget  to  mourn,  — 

Welcome  the  scoif,  the  sword,  the  chain. 

The  burning  waste,  the  black  abyss ; 

I shrink  not  from  that  path  of  pain 
Which  leads  me  to  that  world  of  bliss. 

Then  hush,  thou  troubled  heart ! be  still ; 

Renounce  thy  vain  philosophy  ; 

Seek  thou  to  work  thy  Maker’s  will. 

And  light  from  Heaven  shall  break  on  thee, 

’T  will  glad  thee  in  the  weary  strife. 

Where  strong  men  sink  with  failing  breath ; 

’T  will  cheer  thee  in  the  noon  of  life. 

And  bless  thee  in  the  night  of  death. 

LYONS. 


IMITATED  FROM  THE  PERSIAN. 

Lord  ! who  art  merciful,  as  well  as  just. 

Incline  thine  ear  to  me,  a child  of  dust ! 

Not  what  I would,  0 Lord ! I offer  thee, 

Alas  ! but  what  I can. 

Father  Almighty,  who  hast  made  me  man. 

And  bade  me  look  to  heaven,  for  thou  art  there. 
Accept  my  sacrifice  and  humble  prayer. 

Four  things,  which  are  not  in  thy  treasury, 

I lay  before  thee.  Lord,  with  this  petition  : — 
My  nothingness,  my  wants. 

My  sins,  and  my  contrition. 


SOUTHEY. 


118 


SELECTIONS  IN.  POETRY. 


APRIL. 

’T  IS  tlie  noon  of  the  spring-time,  but  never  a bird 
In  the  wind-shaken  elm  or  maple  is  heard. 

For  green  meadow-grasses,  wide  levels  of  snow. 

And  blowing  of  drifts  where  the  crocus  should  blow  ! 
Where  wild-flower  and  violet,  amber  and  white, 

Ey  south-sloping  brook-sides  should  smile  in  the  light. 

O’er  the  cold  winter  beds  of  their  late-waking  roots 
The  frosty  flake  eddies,  the  ice-crystal  shoots. 

And,  longing  for  light,  under  wind-driven  heaps, 

Hound  the  boles  of  the  pine-wood,  the  ground-laurel  creeps. 
Unkissed  of  the  sunshine,  unbaptized  of  showers. 

With  buds  scarcely  swelled,  which  should  burst  into  flowers ! 
We  wait  for  thy  coming,  sweet  wind  of  the  south, 

The  touch  of  thy  light  wings,  the  kiss  of  thy  mouth ; 

For  the  yearly  evangel  thou  bearest  from  God, — 
Resurrection  and  life  to  the  graves  of  the  sod ! 

Up  our  long  river  valley  for  days  has  not  ceased 
The  wail  and  the  shriek  of  the  bitter  north-east. 

Raw  and  chill  as  if  winnowed  through  ices  and  snow 
All  the  way  from  the  land  of  the  wild  Esquimaux. 

0,  soul  of  the  spring-time,  its  balm  and  its  breath  I 
0,  light  of  its  darkness,  and  life  of  its  death ! 

Why  wait  we  thy  coming  ? why  linger  so  long 
The  warmth  of  thy  breathing,  the  voice  of  thy  song  ? 
Renew  the  great  miracle  ! let  us  behold 
The  stone  from  the  mouth  of  the  sepulchre  rolled, 

And  Nature,  like  Lazarus,  rise  as  of  old ! 

Let  our  faith,  which  in  darkness  and  coldness  has  lain, 
Awake  with  the  warmth  and  the  brightness  again. 

And  in  blooming  of  flower,  and  budding  of  tree, 


MY  LITTLE  SISTER. 


119 


The  symbols  and  types  of  our  destiny  see,  — 

The  life  of  the  spring-time,  the  life  of  the  whole. 
And,  as  sun  to  the  sleeping  earth,  love  to  the  soul  I 

WHITTIER. 


MY  LITTLE  SISTER. 

Thy  memory  as  a spell 
Of  love  comes  o’er  my  mind ; 

As  dew  upon  the  purple  bell. 

As  perfume  on  the  wind. 

As  music  on  the  sea. 

As  sunshine  on  the  river. 

So  hath  it  always  been  to  me. 

So  shall  it  be  forever. 

I hear  thy  voice  in  dreams 
Upon  me  softly  call, 

Like  echo  of  the  mountain  streams 
In  sportive  waterfall. 

I see  thy  form  as  when 
Thou  wert  a living  thing. 

And  blossomed  in  the  eyes  of  men, 
Like  any  flower  of  spring. 

Thy  soul  to  heaven  hath  fled. 

From  earthly  thraldom  free ; 
Yet  ’tis  not  as  the  dead 
That  thou  appear ’st  to  me. 

In  slumber  I behold 

Thy  form,  as  when  on  earth ; 
Thy  locks  of  waving  gold. 

Thy  sapphire  eye  of  mirth. 


120 


SELECTIONS  IN  POETRY. 


I Lear,  in  solitude, 

The  prattle  kind  and  free 
Thou  utteredst  in  joyful  mood 
While  seated  on  niy  knee. 

So  strong  each  vision  seems. 

My  spirit  that  doth  fill, 

I think  not  they  are  dreams. 

But  that  thou  livest  still. 

ROBERT  MACNISH. 


SIGNALS  OF  LIBERTY. 

Weep  not  that  Time 
Is  passing  on  ! — it  will  ere  long  reveal 
A brighter  era  to  the  nations.  Hark  ! 

Along  the  vales  and  mountains  of  the  earth 
There  is  a deep,  portentous  murmuring, 

Like  the  swift  rush  of  subterranean  streams. 

Or  like  the  mingled  sounds  of  earth  and  air. 

When  the  fierce  tempest,  with  sonorous  wing. 

Heaves  his  deep  folds  upon  the  rushing  winds. 

And  hurries  onward,  with  his  night  of  clouds. 

Against  the  eternal  mountains.  ’T  is  the  voice 
Of  infant  Freedom,  — and  her  stirring  call 
Is  heard  and  answered  in  a thousand  tones 
From  every  hill -top  of  her  western  home ; 

And  lo ! it  breaks  across  old  Ocean’s  flood, — 

And  “ Freedom  ! Freedom  ! ” is  the  answering  shout 
Of  nations,  starting  from  the  spell  of  years. 

The  day-spring ! — see  ! ’t  is  brightening  in  the  heavens 
The  watchmen  of  the  night  have  caught  the  sign ; 

From  tower  to  tower  the  signal-fires  flash  free, 


THE  CHILD  OF  EARTH. 


121 


And  the  deep  watchword,  like  the  rush  of  seas 
That  heralds  the  volcano’s  bursting  flame, 

Is  sounding  o’er  the  earth.  Bright  years  of  hope 
And  life  are  on  the  wing ! — Yon  glorious  bow 
Of  Freedom,  bended  by  the  hand  of  God, 

Is  spanning  Time’s  dark  surges.  Its  high  arch, 

A type  of  Love  and  Mercy  on  the  cloud. 

Tells  that  the  many  storms  of  human  life 
Will  pass  in  silence,  and  the  sinking  waves. 
Gathering  the  forms  of  glory  and  of  peace, 

Reflect  the  undimmed  brightness  of  the  heavens. 

G.  D.  PRENTICE. 


THE  CHILD  OF  EARTH. 

Fainter  her  slow  step  falls  from  day  to  day. 

Death’s  hand  is  heavy  on  her  darkening  brow. 

Yet  doth  she  fondly  cling  to  life,  and  say, 

‘‘  I am  content  to  die,  — but  0 ! not  now ! — 

Not  while  the  blossoms  of  the  joyous  spring 
Make  the  warm  air  such  luxury  to  breathe ; 

Not  while  the  birds  such  lays  of  gladness  sing  ; 

Not  while  bright  flowers  around  my  footsteps  wreathe ! — 
Spare  me,  great  God ! lift  up  my  drooping  brow ; 

I am  content  to  die,  — but  0 ! not  now  ! ” 

The  spring  hath  ripened  into  summer  time ; 

The  season’s  viewless  boundary  is  past ; 

The  glorious  sun  hath  reached  his  burning  prime ; 

0 ! must  this  glimpse  of  beauty  be  the  last  ? 

‘‘  Let  me  not  perish  while  o’er  land  and  sea 
With  silent  steps  the  Lord  of  light  moves  on ; 

6 


122 


SELECTIONS  IN  POETRY. 


Not  while  the  murmur  of  the  mountain  bee 
Greets  my  dull  ear  with  music  in  its  tone ! 

Pale  sickness  dims  my  eye  and  clouds  my  brow ; 

I am  content  to  die,  — but  0 ! not  now  ! ” 

Summer  is  gone ; and  autumn’s  soberer  hues 
Tint  the  ripe  fruits,  and  gild  the  waving  corn ; 

The  huntsman  swift  the  flying  game  pursues. 

Shouts  the  halloo,  and  winds  the  eager  horn. 

“ Spare  me  a while,  to  wander  forth  and  gaze 
On  the  broad  meadows  and  the  quiet  stream ; 

To  watch  in  silence  while  the  evening  rays 

Slant  through  the  fading  trees  with  ruddy  gleam ! 

Cooler  the  breezes  play  around  my  brow ; 

I am  content  to  die,  — but  0 ! not  now  ! ” 

The  bleak  wind  whistles ; snow-showers,  far  and  near 
Drift  without  echo  to  the  whitening  ground ; 

Autumn  hath  passed  away ; and,  cold  and  drear. 
Winter  stalks  on  with  frozen  mantle  bound ; 

Yet  still  that  prayer  ascends  : “ 0 ! laughingly 
My  little  brothers  round  the  warm  hearth  crowd ; 

Our  home-fire  blades  broad,  and  bright,  and  high. 

And  the  roof  rings  with  voices  light  and  loud : 

Spare  me  a while ! raise  up  my  drooping  brow ! 

I am  content  to  die,  — but  0 ! not  now  ! ” 

The  spring  is  come  again,  — the  joyful  spring ! 

Again  the  banks  with  clustering  flowers  are  spread 

The  wild  bird  dips  upon  its  wanton  wing : — 

The  child  of  earth  is  numbered  with  the  dead  ! 

Thee  never  more  the  sunshine  shall  awake. 

Beaming  all  redly  through  the  lattice-pane ; 


HYMN  OF  THE  HEBREW  MAID. 


123 


The  steps  of  friends  thy  slumber  may  not  break, 

Nor  fond  familiar  voice  arouse  again  ! 

Death’s  silent  shadow  veils  thy  darkened  brow : 

Why  didst  thou  linger  ? — thou  art  happier  now  ! ” 

MRS.  NORTON. 


HYMN  OF  THE  HEBREW  MAH). 

When  Israel,  of  the  Lord  beloved. 

Out  from  the  land  of  bondage  came. 

Her  father’s  God  before  her  moved. 

An  awful  guide,  in  smoke  and  flame. 

By  day  along  the  astonished  lands 
The  cloudy  pillar  glided  slow ; 

By  night  Arabia’s  crimsoned  sands 
Beturned  the  fiery  pillar’s  glow. 

There  rose  the  choral  hymn  of  praise. 

And  trump  and  timbrel  answered  keen ; 

And  Zion’s  daughters  poured  their  lays. 
With  priests’  and  warriors’  voice  between. 

No  portents  now  our  foes  amaze, — 
Forsaken  Israel  wanders  lone  ; 

Our  fathers  would  not  know  Thy  ways. 

And  Thou  hast  left  them  to  their  own. 

But  present  still,  though  now  unseen ! 

When  brightly  shines  the  prosperous  day, 

Be  thoughts  of  Thee  a cloudy  screen. 

To  temper  the  deceitful  ray. 

And,  0 ! when  stoops  on  Judah’s  path 
In  shade  and  storm  the  frequent  night, 

Be  Thou,  long-sufiering,  slow  to  wrath, 

A burning  and  a shining  light ! 


124 


SELECTIONS  IN  POETRY. 


Our  harps  we  left  by  Babel’s  streams, 

The  tyrant’s  jest,  the  Gentiles’  scorn  ; 

No  censer  round  our  altar  beams. 

And  mute  are  timbrel,  trump  and  horn. 

But  Thou  hast  said,  — “ The  blood  of  goats. 
The  flesh  of  lambs,  I will  not  prize ; 

A contrite  heart  and  humble  thoughts 
Are  my  accepted  sacrifice.” 

SIR  WALTER  SCOTT. 


TO  A LADY  ON  HER  IVIiVRRIAGE. 

They  tell  me,  gentle  lady,  that  they  deck  thee  for  a bride. 

That  the  wreath  is  woven  for  thy  hair,  the  bridegroom  by 
thy  side ; 

And  I think  I hear  thy  mother’s  sigh,  thy  father’s  calmer 
tone, 

As  they  give  thee  to  another’s  arms,  — their  beautiful, 
their  own. 

I never  saw  a bridal  but  my  eyelids  have  been  wet. 

And  it  always  seemed  to  me  as  though  a joyous  crowd  were 
met 

To  see  the  saddest  sight  of  all,  a gay  and  girlish  thing 

Lay  aside  her  maiden  gladness,  — for  a name,  — and  for  a 
rin£. 

And  other  cares  will  claim  thy  thoughts,  and  other  hearts 
thy  love, 

And  gayer  friends  may  be  around,  and  bluer  skies  above  ; 

Yet  thou,  when  I behold  thee  next,  may’st  wear  upon  thy 
brow 

Perchance  a mother’s  look  of  care,  for  that  which  decks  it 


now. 


TO  A LADY  ON  HER  MARRIAGE. 


125 


And  when  I think  how  often  I have  seen  thee,  with  thy 
mild 

And  lovely  look,  and  step  of  air,  and  bearing  like  a child, 

0 ! how  mournfully,  how  mournfully,  the  thought  comes 
o’er  my  brain, 

When  I think  thou  ne’er  may’st  be  that  free  and  girlish 
thing  again  ! 

I would  that  as  my  heart  dictates,  just  such  might  be  my 
lay, 

And  my  voice  should  be  a voice  of  mirth,  a music  like  the 
May; 

But  it  may  not  be  ! — within  my  breast  all  frozen  are  the 
springs, 

The  murmur  dies  upon  the  lip,  the  music  on  the  strings. 

But  a voice  is  floating  round  me,  and  it  tells  me,  in  my  rest, 

That  sunshine  shall  illume  thy  path,  that  joy  shall  be  thy 
guest. 

That  thy  life  shall  be  a summer’s  day,  whose  evening  shall 
go  down, 

Like  the  evening  in  the  eastern  clime,  that  never  knows  a 
frown. 

When  thy  foot  is  at  the  altar,  when  the  ring  hath  pressed 
thy  hand. 

When  those  thou  lov’st  and  those  that  love  thee  weeping 
round  thee  stand, 

0 ! may  the  rhyme  that  friendship  weaves,  like  a spirit  of 
the  air. 

Be  o’er  thee  at  that  moment,  for  a blessing  and  a prayer  ! 

FITZGERALD. 


126 


SELECTIONS  IN  POETUY. 


BEAUTY,  WIT  AND  GOLD. 

In  a bower  a widow  dwelt ; 

At  her  feet  three  suitors  knelt ; 

Each  adored  the  widow  much, 

Each  essayed  her  heart  to  touch  ; 

One  had  wit,  and  one  had  gold. 

And  one  was  cast  in  beauty’s  mould ; — 
Guess  which  was  it  won  the  prize. 
Purse,  or  tongue,  or  handsome  eyes  ? 

First  appeared  the  handsome  man. 
Proudly  peeping  o’er  her  fan ; 

Red  his  lips,  and  white  his  skin,  — 
Could  such  beauty  fail  to  win  ? 

Then  stepped  forth  the  man  of  gold  ; 
Cash  he  counted,  coin  he  told. 

Wealth  the  burden  of  his  tale, — 

Could  such  golden  projects  fail  ? 

Then  the  man  of  wit  and  sense 
Wooed  her  with  his  eloquence. 

Now  she  blushed,  she  knew  not  why  ; 
Now  she  heaved  th’  unconscious  sigh ; 


TO  MY  PIANOFORTE. 


127 


Then  she  smiled,  to  hear  him  speak  ; 
Then  the  tear  was  on  her  cheek  ; — 
Beauty,  vanish  ! Gold,  depart ! 
Wit  has  won  the  widow’s  heart ! 


TO  MY  PIANOFORTE. 

0,  FRIEND,  whom  glad  or  grave  we  seek. 
Heaven-holding  shrine ! 

I ope  thee,  touch  thee,  hear  thee  speak. 
And  peace  is  mine. 

No  fairy  casket,  full  of  bliss. 

Outvalues  thee : 

Love  only,  wakened  by  a kiss. 

More  sweet  may  be. 

To  thee,  when  our  full  hearts  o’erflow 
With  grief  or  joys. 

Unspeakable  emotions  owe 
A fitting  voice. 

Mirth  flies  to  thee,  and  Love’s  unrest. 
And  Memory  dear ; 

And  Sorrow,  with  his  tightened  breast. 
Comes  for  a tear. 

0 ! since  no  joys  of  human  mould 
Thus  wait  us  still, 

Thrice  blessed  be  thine,  thou  gentle  fold 
Of  peace  at  will. 

No  change,  no  sullenness,  no  cheat, 

In  thee  we  find  : 

Thy  saddest  voice  is  ever  sweet. 

Thine  answers  kind. 


LEIGH  nCNT. 


128 


SELECTIONS  IN  POETRY. 


SONG  OF  A GUARDIAN  SPIRIT. 

Near  tliee,  still  near  thee ! — o’er  thy  pathway  gliding, 
Unseen  I pass  thee  with  the  wind’s  low  sigh ; 

Life’s  veil  enfolds  thee  still,  our  eyes  dividing, 

Yet  viewless  love  floats  round  thee  silently ! 

Not  ’midst  the  festal  throng, 

In  halls  of  mirth  and  song, 

But  when  thy  thoughts  are  deepest, 

When  holy  tears  thou  weepest, 

Know  then  that  love  is  nigh  ! 

When  the  night’s  whisper  o’er  thy  harp-strings  creeping, 

Or  the  sea-music  on  the  sounding  shore, 

Or  breezy  anthems  through  the  forest  sweeping. 

Shall  move  thy  trembling  spirit  to  adore ; 

When  every  thought  and  prayer 
We  loved  to  breathe  and  share, 

On  thy  full  heart  returning. 

Shall  wake  its  voiceless  yearning, 

Then  feel  me  near  once  more  ! 

Near  thee,  still  near  thee  ! — trust  thy  soul’s  deep  dreaming, 
— 0 ! love  is  not  an  earthly  rose  to  die ! 

Even  when  I soar  where  fiery  stars  are  beaming. 

Thine  image  wanders  with  me  through  the  sky. 

The  fields  of  air  are  free. 

Yet  lonely,  wanting  thee  ; 

But  when  thy  chains  are  falling. 

When  heaven  its  own  is  calling. 

Know  then  thy  guide  is  nigh  ! 

MRS.  HEMANS. 


HELVELLYN. 


129 


HELVELLYN. 

In  the  spring  of  1805,  a young  gentleman  of  talents,  and  of  a most  amiable 
disposition,  perished  by  losing  his  way  on  the  mountain  Ilelvellyn.  Ilis  remains 
were  not  discovered  till  three  months  afterwards,  when  they  were  found  guarded 
by  a faithful  dog,  his  constant  attendant  during  frequent  solitary  rambles  through 
the  wilds  of  Cumberland  and  Westmoreland. 

I CLIMBED  the  dark  brow  of  the  mighty  Helvellyn, 

Lakes  and  mountains  beneath  me  gleamed  misty  and 
wide ; 

All  was  still,  save  by  fits,  when  the  eagle  was  yelling. 

And,  starting  around  me,  the  echoes  replied. 

On  the  right  Striden-edge  round  the  Red-tarn  was 
bending, 

And  Catchedicam  its  left  verge  was  defending. 

One  huge  nameless  rock  in  the  front  was  ascending. 

When  I marked  the  sad  spot  where  the  wanderer  had 
died. 

Dark  green  was  that  spot  ’mid  the  brown  mountain  heather, 
Where  the  pilgrim  of  Nature  lay  stretched  in  decay. 
Like  the  corpse  of  an  outcast,  abandoned  to  weather. 

Till  the  mountain  winds  wasted  the  tenantless  clay. 

Nor  yet  quite  deserted,  though  lonely  extended, 

For  faithful  in  death  his  mute  favorite  attended. 

The  much-loved  remains  of  her  master  defended, 

And  chased  the  hill-fox  and  the  raven  away. 

How  long  didst  thou  think  that  his  silence  was  slumber  ? 
When  the  wind  waved  his  garment,  how  oft  didst  thou 
start  ? 

How  many  long  days  and  long  weeks  didst  thou  number, 
Ere  he  faded  before  thee,  the  friend  of  thy  heart  ? 

6^  I 


130 


SELECTIONS  IN  POETRY. 


And  0 ! was  it  meet,  that,  — no  requiem  read  o’er  him, 

No  mother  to  weep,  and  no  friend  to  deplore  him. 

And  thou,  little  guardian,  alone  stretched  before  him, — 
Unhonored  the  pilgrim  from  life  should  depart  ? 

When  a prince  to  the  fate  of  the  peasant  has  yielded. 

The  tapestry  waves  dark  round  the  dim-lighted  hall ; 
With  scutcheons  of  silver  the  coffin  is  shielded, 

And  pages  stand  mute  by  the  canopied  pall : 

Through  the  courts,  at  deep  midnight,  the  torches  are 
gleaming ; 

In  the  proudly  arched  chapel  the  banners  are  beaming ; 

Far  adown  the  long  aisle  sacred  music  is  streaming, 
Lamenting  a chief  of  the  people  should  fall. 

But  meeter  for  thee,  gentle  lover  of  nature. 

To  lay  down  thy  head  like  the  meek  mountain  lamb. 
When  ’wildered  he  drops  from  some  cliff  huge  in  stature. 
And  draws  his  last  sob  by  the  side  of  his  dam. 

And  more  stately  thy  couch,  by  this  desert  lake  lying. 

Thy  obsequies  sung  by  the  gray  plover  flying. 

With  one  faithful  friend  but  to  witness  thy  dying. 

In  the  arms  of  Helvellyn  and  Catchedicam. 

SIR  WALTER  SCOTT. 


FAITH. 

Ye  who  think  the  truth  ye  sow 
Lost  beneath  the  winter’s  snow, 
Doubt  not,  Time’s  unerring  law 
Yet  shall  bring  the  genial  thaw. 
God  in  nature  ye  can  trust,  — 
Is  the  God  of  mind  less  just  ? 


GOD. 


131 


Read  we  not  the  mighty  thought 
Once  by  ancient  sages  taught  ? 

Though  it  withered  in  the  blight 
Of  the  mediaeval  night, 

Now  the  harvest  we  behold ; 

See ! it  bears  a thousand  fold. 

Workers  on  the  barren  soil, 

Yours  may  seem  a thankless  toil ; 

Sick  at  heart  with  hope  deferred, 

Listen  to  the  cheering  word : 

Now  the  faithful  sower  grieves ; 

Soon  he  ’ll  bind  his  golden  sheaves. 

If  Great  Wisdom  have  decreed 
Man  may  labor,  yet  the  seed 
Never  in  this  life  shall  grow. 

Shall  the  sower  cease  to  sow  ? 

The  fairest  fruit  may  yet  be  born 
On  the  resurrection  morn  ! 

FRITZ  AND  LEOLETT. 


GOD. 

The  following  majestic  ode  to  the  Deity  is  from  the  Russian  of  Derzhavine, 
translated  by  Bowring. 

0 THOU  eternal  One ! whose  presence  bright 
All  space  doth  occupy,  all  motion  guide. 

Unchanged  through  time’s  all-devastating  flight. 

Thou  only  God ! there  is  no  God  beside ! 

Being  above  all  beings ! Mighty  One ! 

Whom  none  can  comprehend  and  none  explore. 

Who  fiU’st  existence  with  thyself  alone ; 

Embracing  all,  supporting,  ruling  o’er,  — 

Being  whom  we  call  God,  and  know  no  more ! 


132 


SELECTIONS  IN  POETRY. 


In  its  sublime  research,  philosophy 

May  measure  out  the  ocean  deep,  may  count 
The  sands  or  the  sun’s  rays ; but,  God!  for  thee 
There  is  no  weight  nor  measure ; none  can  mount 
Up  to  thy  mysteries ; reason’s  brightest  spark, 

Though  kindled  by  thy  light,  in  vain  would  try 
To  trace  thy  counsels,  infinite  and  dark ; 

And  thought  is  lost  ere  thought  can  soar  so  high, 
Even  like  past  moments  in  eternity. 

Thou  from  primeval  nothingness  didst  call 
First  chaos,  then  existence ; Lord,  on  thee 
Eternity  had  its  foundation  ; all 

Sprang  forth  from  thee,  of  light,  joy,  harmony. 

Sole  origin ; all  life,  all  beauty,  thine. 

Thy  word  created  all,  and  doth  create ; 

Thy  splendor  fills  all  space  with  rays  divine. 

Thou  art,  and  wert,  and  shalt  be,  glorious,  great, 
Life-giving,  life-sustaining  Potentate  ! 

Thy  chains  the  unmeasured  universe  surround. 

Upheld  by  thee,  by  thee  inspired  with  breath ! 

Thou  the  beginning  with  the  end  hast  bound. 

And  beautifully  mingled  life  and  death ! 

As  sparks  mount  upward  from  the  fiery  blaze, 

So  suns  are  born,  so  worlds  spring  forth  from  thee ; 
And  as  the  spangles  in  the  sunny  rays 

Shine  round  the  silver  snow,  the  pageantry 
Of  heaven’s  bright  army  glitters  in  thy  praise. 

A million  torches,  lighted  by  thy  hand. 

Wander  unwearied  through  the  blue  abyss ; 

They  own  thy  power,  accomplish  thy  command. 

All  gay  with  life,  all  eloquent  with  bliss. 


GOD. 


133 


What  shall  we  call  them  ? Piles  of  crystal  light  ? 

A glorious  company  of  golden  streams  ? 

Lamps  of  celestial  ether,  burning  bright  ? 

Suns  lighting  systems  with  their  joyous  beams  ? — 
But  thou  to  these  art  as  the  noon  to  night. 

Yes ! as  a drop  of  water  in  the  sea, 

All  this  magnificence  in  thee  is  lost ; 

What  are  ten  thousand  worlds  compared  to  thee  ? 

And  what  am  J,  then  ? Heaven’s  unnumbered  host, 
Though  multiplied  by  myriads,  and  arrayed 
In  all  the  glory  of  sublimest  thought. 

Is  but  an  atom  in  the  balance,  weighed 

Against  thy  greatness,  — is  a cipher  brought 
Against  infinity ! What  am  I,  then  ? — Naught. 

Naught ! But  the  effluence  of  thy  light  divine, 
Pervading  worlds,  hath  reached  my  bosom  too ; 

Yes ! in  my  spirit  doth  thy  Spirit  shine. 

As  shines  the  sunbeam  in  a drop  of  dew. 

Naught ! — but  I live,  and  on  hope’s  pinions  fly 
Eager  toward  thy  presence ; for  in  thee 
I live,  and  breathe,  and  dwell ; aspiring  high. 

Even  to  the  throne  of  thy  divinity. 

I am,  0 God,  and  surely  thou  must  be ! 

Thou  art ! directing,  guiding  all.  Thou  art ! 

Direct  my  understanding,  then,  to  thee ; 

Control  my  spirit,  guide  my  wandering  heart ; 

Though  but  an  atom  ’mid  immensity. 

Still  I am  something,  fashioned  by  thy  hand ! 

I hold  a middle  rank  ’twixt  heaven  and  earth, 


134 


SELECTIONS  IN  POETRY. 


On  the  last  verge  of  mortal  being  stand, 

Close  to  the  realms  where  angels  have  their  birth, 
J ust  on  the  boundary  of  the  spirit-land  ! 

The  chain  of  being  is  complete  in  me ; 

In  me  is  matter’s  last  gradation  lost, 

And  the  next  step  is  spirit,  — deity  ! 

I can  command  the  lightning,  and  am  dust ! 

A monarch,  and  a slave ! a worm,  a god  ! 

Whence  came  I here,  and  how  ? so  marvellously 
Constructed  and  conceived  ! unknown  ? this  clod 
Lives  surely  through  some  higher  energy  ? 

For  from  itself  alone  it  could  not  be  ! 

Creator,  yes ! thy  wisdom  and  thy  word 
Created  me,  thou  source  of  life  and  good  ! 

Thou  Spirit  of  my  spirit,  and  my  Lord  ! 

Thy  light,  thy  love,  in  their  bright  plenitude. 
Filled  me  with  an  immortal  soul,  to  spring 
Over  the  abyss  of  death,  and  bade  it  wear 
The  garments  of  eternal  day,  and  wing 

Its  heavenly  flight  beyond  this  little  sphere. 

Even  to  its  source,  — to  thee,  — its  Author  there. 

0 thought  ineffable  ! 0 vision  blest ! 

Though  worthless  our  conceptions  all  of  thee. 

Yet  shall  thy  shadowed  image  fill  our  breast, 

And  waft  its  homage  to  the  Deity. 

God  ! thus  alone  my  lowly  thoughts  can  soar  ; 

Thus  seek  thy  presence.  Being  wise  and  good  ! 
’Midst  thy  vast  works  admire,  obey,  adore  ! 

And  when  the  tongue  is  eloquent  no  more, 

The  soul  shall  speak  in  tears  of  gratitude. 


THE  RAINY  DAY. 


135 


THE  RAINY  DAY. 

The  day  is  cold,  and  dark,  and  dreary ; 

It  rains,  and  the  wind  is  never  weary ; 

The  vine  still  clings  to  the  mouldering  wall. 

But  at  every  gust  the  dead  leaves  fall. 

And  the  day  is  dark  and  dreary. 

My  life  is  cold,  and  dark,  and  dreary ; 

It  rains,  and  the  wind  is  never  weary ; 

My  thoughts  still  cling  to  the  mouldering  Past, 
But  the  hopes  of  youth  fall  thick  in  the  blast. 
And  the  days  are  dark  and  dreary. 

Be  still,  sad  heart ! and  cease  repining ; 

Behind  the  clouds  is  the  sun  still  shining ; 

Thy  fate  is  the  common  fate  of  all,  — 

Into  each  life  some  rain  must  fall. 

Some  days  must  be  dark  and  dreary. 

1.0NGFELL0W. 


WHY  THUS  LONGING? 

Why  thus  longing,  thus  forever  sighing. 

For  the  far-off,  unattained  and  dim. 

While  the  beautiful,  all  round  thee  lying. 

Offers  up  its  low  perpetual  hymn  ? 

Wouldst  thou  listen  to  its  gentle  teaching,  ' 
All  thy  restless  yearnings  it  would  still ; 

Leaf  and  flower  and  laden  bee  are  preaching, 
Thine  own  sphere,  though  humble,  first  to  fill. 

Poor,  indeed,  thou  must  be,  if  around  thee 
Thou  no  ray  of  light  and  joy  canst  throw ; 


13G 


SELECTIONS  IN  TOETRY. 


Tf  no  silken  cord  of  love  hath  bound  thee 
To  some  little  world  through  weal  and  woe ; 

If  no  dear  eyes  thy  fond  love  can  brighten, 

No  fond  voices  answer  to  thine  own ; 

If  no  brother’s  sorrow  thou  canst  lighten, 

By  daily  sympathy  and  gentle  tone. 

Not  by  deeds  that  win  the  crowd’s  applauses. 

Not  by  works  that  give  thee  world-renown. 

Not  by  martyrdom,  or  vaunted  crosses, 

Canst  thou  win  and  wear  the  immortal  crown. 

Daily  struggling,  though  unloved  and  lonely. 
Every  day  a rich  reward  will  give ; 

Thou  wilt  find,  by  hearty  striving  only. 

And  truly  loving,  thou  canst  truly  live. 

Dost  thou  revel  in  the  rosy  morning, 

When  all  nature  hails  the  lord  of  light. 

And  his  smile,  the  mountain  tops  adorning, 

Bobes  yon  fragrant  fields  in  radiance  bright  ? 

Other  hands  may  grasp  the  field  and  forest. 

Proud  proprietors  in  pomp  may  shine ; 

But  with  fervent  love  if  thou  adorest. 

Thou  art  wealthier,  — all  the  world  is  thine  ! 

Yet,  if  through  earth’s  wide  domains  thou  rovest. 
Sighing  that  they  are  not  thine  alone, 

Not  those  fair  fields,  but  thyself,  thou  lovest, 

And  their  beauty  and  thy  worth  are  gone. 

Nature  wears  the  colors  of  the  spirit ; 

Sweetly  to  her  worshipper  she  sings ; 

All  the  glow,  the  grace,  she  doth  inherit. 

Hound  her  trusting  child  she  fondly  flings. 

HARRIET  WINSLOW 


THE  MOTHER  AND  CHILD. 


137 


THE  MOTHER  AND  CHILD. 

The  incidents  which  gave  rise  to  these  lines  occurred  in  1822,  on  the  Green 
Mountains  of  Vermont.  The  mother  was  a Mrs.  Blake. 

The  cold  winds  swept  the  mountain  height, 

And  pathless  was  the  dreary  wild, 

And  mid  the  cheerless  hours  of  night 
A mother  wandered  with  her  child : 

As  through  the  drifting  snow  she  pressed, 

The  babe  was  sleeping  on  her  breast. 

And  colder  still  the  winds  did  blow. 

And  darker  hours  of  night  came  on. 

And  deeper  grew  the  drifting  snow ; 

Her  limbs  were  chilled,  her  strength  was  gone. 

“ 0 God ! ” she  cried,  in  accents  wild, 

“ If  I must  perish,  save  my  child  ! ” 

She  stripped  her  mantle  from  her  breast, 

And  bared  her  bosom  to  the  storm ; 


138 


SELECTIONS  IN  POETRY. 


And  round  her  child  she  wrapped  the  vest, 
And  smiled  to  think  her  babe  was  warm. 
With  one  cold  kiss  a tear  she  shed, 

And  sank  upon  her  snowy  bed. 

At  dawn  a traveller  came  by, 

And  saw  her  ’neath  a snowy  veil ; 

The  frost  of  death  was  in  her  eye, 

Her  cheek  was  cold  and  hard  and  pale. 
He  moved  the  robe  that  wrapped  the  child, 
The  babe  looked  up,  and  sweetly  smiled ! 


THE  FACTORY  CHILDREN’S  HOLIDAY. 

The  day  was  fair,  the  cannon  roared. 
Cold  blew  the  bracing  north, 

And  Preston  mills  by  thousands  poured 
Their  little  captives  forth. 

All  in  their  best  they  paced  the  street, 
All  glad  that  they  were  free ; 

And  sang  a song  with  voices  sweet,  — 
They  sang  of  liberty ! 

But  from  their  lips  the  rose  had  fled ; 
Like  “ death-in-life  ” they  smiled; 

And  still,  as  each  passed  by,  I said, 

“ Alas ! is  that  a child  ? ” 

Flags  waved,  — and  men,  a ghastly  crew 
Marched  with  them  side  by  side ; 

While  hand  in  hand,  and  two  by  two. 
They  moved,  a living  tide. 

Thousands  and  thousands,  — 0,  so  white 
With  eyes  so  glazed  and  dull,  — 


TO  A FRIEND  ON  HIS  MARRIAGE. 


139 


Alas  ! it  was  indeed  a sight 
Too  sadly  beautiful ; 

And,  0 ! the  pang  their  voices  gave 
Kefuses  to  depart ! 

“ This  is  a wailing  for  the  grave ! ” 

I whispered  to  my  heart. 

It  was  as  if,  where  roses  blushed, 

A sudden,  blasting  gale 
O’er  fields  of  bloom  had  rudely  rushed. 

And  turned  the  roses  pale ; 

It  was  as  if  in  glen  and  grove 
The  wild  birds  sadly  sung, 

And  every  linnet  mourned  its  love. 

And  every  thrush  its  young. 

It  was  ^ if  in  dungeon-gloom. 

Where  chained  Despair  reclined, 

A sound  came  from  the  living  tomb, 

And  hymned  the  passing  wind. 

And  while  they  sang,  and  though  they  smiled, 
My  soul  groaned  heavily, 

“0,  who  would  he  or  have  a child  ! 

A mother  who  would  be  ! ” 

ELLIOT. 


TO  A FRIEND  ON  HIS  MARRIAGE. 

How  shall  a man  fore-doomed  to  lone  estate, 
Untimely  old,  irreverently  gray. 

Much  like  a patch  of  dusky  snow  in  May, 
Dead  sleeping  in  a hollow,  all  too  late,  — 
How  shall  so  poor  a thing  congratulate 
The  blest  completion  of  a patient  wooing, 


140 


SELECTIONS  IN  POETRY. 


Or  how  commend  a younger  man  for  doing 
What  ne’er  to  do  hath  been  his  fault  or  fate  ? 
Tliere  is  a fable  that  I once  did  read, 

Of  a bad  angel  that  was  someway  good, 

And  therefore  on  the  brink  of  heaven  he  stood, 
Looking  each  way,  and  no  way  could  proceed ; 
Till  at  the  last  he  purged  away  his  sin 
By  loving  all  the  joy  he  saw  within. 

HARTLEY  COLERIDGE. 


THE  OLD  OAKEN  BUCKET. 

How  dear  to  my  heart  are  the  scenes  of  my  childhood, 
When  fond  recollection  presents  them  to  view  ! — 
The  orchard,  the  meadow,  the  deep-tangled  wild-wood. 
And  every  loved  spot  which  my  infancy  knew ; 

The  wide-spreading  pond,  and  the  mill  that  stood  by  it ! 

The  bridge,  and  the  rock  where  the  cataract  fell ; 

The  cot  of  my  father,  the  dairy-house  nigh  it. 

And  e’en  the  rude  bucket  which  hung  in  the  well ! 
The  old  oaken  bucket,  the  iron-bound  bucket. 

That  moss-covered  bucket,  which  hung  in  the  well 

That  moss-covered  vessel  I hailed  as  a treasure ; 

For  often  at  noon,  when  returned  from  the  field, 

I found  it  the  source  of  an  exquisite  pleasure. 

The  purest  and  sweetest  that  nature  can  yield. 

How  ardent  I seized  it  with  hands  that  were  glowing. 
And  quick  to  the  white-pebbied  bottom  it  fell ! 

Then  soon,  with  the  emblem  of  truth  overflowing. 

And  dripping  with  coolness,  it  rose  from  the  well : 
The  old  oaken  bucket,  the  iron-bound  bucket. 

The  moss-covered  bucket,  arose  from  the  well ! 


IMMORTALITY. 


141 


How  sweet  from  the  green  mossy  brim  to  receive  it, 

As,  poised  on  the  curb,  it  inclined  to  my  lips ! 

Not  a full,  blushing  goblet  could  tempt  me  to  leave  it, 
Though  filled  with  the  neCtar  that  Jupiter  sips. 

And  now,  far  removed  from  that  loved  situation. 

The  tear  of  regret  will  intrusively  swell. 

As  fancy  reverts  to  my  father’s  plantation. 

And  sighs  for  the  bucket  which  hangs  in  the  well ; 
The  old'  oaken  bucket,  the  iron-bound  bucket. 

The  moss-covered  bucket,  which  hangs  in  the  well ! 

WOODWORTH. 


IMMORTALITY. 

And  with  our  frames  do  perish  all  our  loves  ? 

Do  those  that  took  their  root,  and  put  forth  buds. 

And  their  soft  leaves  unfolded,  in  the  warmth 
Of  mutual  hearts,  grow  up  and  live  in  beauty, 

Then  fade  and  fall,  like  fair,  unconscious  flowers  ? 

Are  thoughts  and  passions,  that  to  the  tongue  give  speech. 
And  make  it  send  forth  winning  harmonies,  — 

That  to  the  cheek  do  give  its  living  glow. 

And  vision  in  the  eye  the  soul  intense 
With  that  for  which  there  is  no  utterance,  — 

Are  these  the  body’s  accidents  ? — no  more  ? — 

To  live  in  it,  and,  when  that  dies,  go  out. 

Like  the  burnt  taper’s  flame  ? 

0 ! listen,  man  ! 

A voice  within  us  speaks  that  startling  word, 

Man,  thou  shalt  never  die  ! ” Celestial  voices 
Hymn  it  unto  our  souls ; according  harps,  ' 

By  angel  fingers  touched,  when  the  mild  stars 


142 


SELECTIONS  IN  POETRY. 


Of  morning  sang  together,  sound  forth  still 
The  song  of  our  great  immortality : 

Thick-clustering  orbs,  and  this  our  fair  domain. 

The  tall,  dark  mountains,  and  the  deep-toned  seas. 
Join  in  this  solemn,  universal  song. 

0 ! listen,  ye,  our  spirits ; drink  it  in 

From  all  the  air.  ’T  is  in  the  gentle  moonlight ; 

’T  is  floating  ’midst  Day’s  setting  glories  ; Night, 
Wrapped  in  her  sable  robe,  with  silent  step 
Comes  to  our  bed,  and  breathes  it  in  our  ears : 

Night,  and  the  dawn,  bright  day,  and  thoughtful  eve, 
All  time,  all  bounds,  the  limitless  expanse. 

As  one  vast  mystic  instrument,  are  touched 
By  an  unseen,  living  Hand,  and  conscious  chords 
Quiver  with  joy  in  this  great  jubilee. 

The  dying  hear  it ; and,  as  sounds  of  earth 
Grow  dull  and  distant,  wake  their  passing  souls 
To  mingle  in  this  heavenly  harmony. 

DANA. 


ONLY  THINE. 

0,  HAND  of  bounty,  largely  spread, 

By  whom  our  every  want  is  fed ! 
Whate’er  we  touch,  or  taste,  or  see. 
We  owe  them  all,  0 Lord,  to  thee ; — 
The  corn,  the  oil,  the  purple  wine, 

Are  all  thy  gifts,  and  only  thine. 

The  stream  thy  word  to  nectar  dyed, 
Th6  bread  thy  blessing  multiplied  ; 

The  stormy  wind,  the  ’whelming  flood. 
That  silent  at  thy  mandate  stood. 


EARLY  PIETY. 


143 


How  well  they  knew  thy  voice  divine, 

Whose  works  they  were,  and  only  thine ! 

Though  now  no  more  on  earth  we  trace 
Thy  footsteps  of  celestial  grace,  ^ 

Obedient  to  thy  word  and  will. 

We  seek  thy  daily  mercy  still ; 

Its  blessed  beams  around  us  shine. 

And  thine  we  are,  and  only  thine. 

* HEBER. 


EARLY  PIETY. 

By  cool  Siloam’s  shady  rill 
y How  sweet  the  lily  grows  ; 

How  sweet  the  breath  beneath  the  hill 
Of  Sharon’s  dewy  rose  ! 

Lo ! such  the  child  whose  early  feet 
The  paths  of  peace  have  trod  ; 

Whose  secret  heart,  with  influence  sweet, 
Is  upward  drawn  to  God. 

By  cool  Siloam’s  shady  rill 
The  lily  must  decay  ; 

The  rose  that  blooms  beneath  the  hill 
Must  shortly  fade  away. 

And  soon,  too  soon,  the  wintry  hour 
Of  man’s  maturer  age 

Will  shake  the  soul  with  sorrow’s  power. 
And  stormy  passion’s  rage. 

0 Thou,  whose  infant  feet  were  found 
Within  thy  Father’s  shrine, 


144 


SELECTIONS  IN  POETRY. 


Whose  years,  with  changeless  virtue  crowned, 
Were  all  alike  divine,  — 

Dependent  on  thy  bounteous  breath. 

We  seek  thy  grace  alone. 

In  childhood,  manhood,  age  and  death. 

To  keep  us  still  thine  own. 

HEBLil. 


DREAMS. 

0 ! THERE  is  a dream  of  early  youth, 

And  it  never  comes  again ; 

’T  is  a vision  of  light,  of  life,  and  truth, 

That  flits  across  the  brain  ; 

And  love  is  the  theme  of  that  early  dream, 
So  wild,  so  warm,  so  new. 

That  in  all  our  after  years,  I deem. 

That  early  dream  we  rue. 

0 ! there  is  a dream  of  maturer  years. 

More  turbulent  by  far ; 

’T  is  a vision  of  blood  and  of  woman’s  tears, 
For  the  theme  of  that  dream  is  war ; 

And  we  toil  in  the  fleld  of  danger  and  death. 

And  shout  in  the  battle  array. 

Till  we  find  that  fame  is  a bodiless  breath. 
That  vanisheth  away. 

0 ! there  is  a dream  of  hoary  age  ; 

’T  is  a vision  of  gold  in  store,  — 

Of  sums  noted  down  on  a figured  page. 

To  be  counted  o’er  and  o’er ; 


HYMN  FOR  ONE  DEPARTED. 


145 


And  we  fondly  trust  in  our  glittering  dust, 
As  a refuge  from  grief  and  pain, 

Till  our  limbs  are  laid  on  that  last,  dark  bed 
Where  the  wealth  of  the  world  is  vain. 

And  is  it  thus  from  man’s  birth  to  his  grave, 
In  the  path  which  we  all  are  treading  ? 

Is  there  naught  in  his  long  career  to  save 
From  remorse  and  self-upbraiding  ? 

0 yes,  there ’s  a dream,  so  pure,  so  bright j 
That  the  being  to  whom  it  is  given 
Hath  bathed  in  a sea  of  living  light)  — 

And  the  theme  of  that  dream  is  Heaven  ! 


HYMN  FOR  ONE  DEPARTED. 

FIRST  VOICE. 

0,  BEAUTIFUL  the  strdams 

That  through  our  valleys  run. 
Singing  and  dancing  in  the  gleams 
Of  summer’s  cloudless  sun ! 

The  sweetest  of  them  all 

From  its  fairy  banks  is  gone ; 
And  the  music  of  the  water-fall 

Hath  left  the  silent  stone ! 

«■- 

Up  among  the  mountains. 

In  soft  and  mossy  cell. 

By  the  silent  springs  and  fountains, 
The  happy  wild-flowers  dwell. 
The  queen-rose  of  the  wilderness 
Hath  withered  in  the  wind, 

And  the  shepherds  see  no  loveliness 
In  the  blossoms  left  behind. 

7 


j 


14(3 


SELECTIONS  IN  POETRY. 


l>irds  clieer  our  lonely  groves 
With  many  a beauteous  wing ; 

When  happy  in  their  harmless  loves, 

IIow  tenderly  they  sing ! 

(3’er  all  the  rest  was  hoard 

One  wild  and  mournful  strain,  — 

But  hushed  is  the  voice  of  that  hymning  bird, 
She  ne’er  must  sing  again  ! 

Briglit  through  the  yew-tree’s  gloom, 

I saw  a sleeping  dove ! 

On  the  silence  of  her  silvery  plume. 

The  sunlight  lay  in  love ; 

The  grove  seemed  all  her  own 

Bound  the  beauty  of  that  breast,  — 

But  the  startled  dove  afar  is  flown. 

Forsaken  is  her  nest ! 

In  yonder  forest  wide 
A flock  of  wild  deer  lies, 

Beauty  breathes  o’er  each  tender  side. 

And  shades  their  peaceful  eyes ! 

The  hunter  in  the  night 
Hath  singled  out  the  doe, 

In  whose  light  the  mountain  flock  lay  bright, 
Whose  hue  was  like  the  snow  ! 

A thousand  stars  shine  forth 
With  pure  and  dewy  ray. 

Till  by  night  the  mountains  of  our  north 
Seem  gladdening  in  the  day : 

0,  empty  all  the  heaven. 

Though  a thousand  lights  be  there,  — 


HYMN  FOR  ONE  DEPARTED. 


147 


For  clouds  o’er  the  evening  star  have  driven, 
And  shorn  her  golden  hair ! 

SECOND  VOICE. 

What,  though  the  stream  be  dead,  — 

Its  banks  all  still  and  dry  ! 

It  murmureth  now  o’er  a lovelier  bed 
In  the  air-groves  of  the  sky. 

What,  though  our  prayers  from  death 
The  queen-rose  might  not  save  ! 

With  brighter  bloom  and  balmier  breath 
She  springeth  from  the  grave. 

What,  though  our  bird  of  light 
Lie  mute  with  plumage  dim  ! 

In  heaven  I see  her  glancing  bright, 

I hear  her  angel  hymn. 

What,  though  the  dark  tree  smile 
No  more  with  our  dove’s  calm  sleep ! 

She  folds  her  wing  on  a sunny  isle 
In  heaven’s  untroubled  deep  ! 

True  that  our  beauteous  doe 
Hath  left  her  still  retreat,  — 

But  purer  now  in  heavenly  snow 
She  lies  at  Jesus’  feet. 

0 star  untimely  set ! 

Why  should  we  weep  for  thee  ? 

Thy  bright  and  dewy  coronet 
Is  rising  o’er  the  sea ! 


WILSON. 


148 


SELECTIONS  IN  rOETItV. 


HAPPINESS. 

One  morning  in  the  month  of  May, 

I wandered  o’er  the  hill ; 

Though  nature  all  around  was  gay, 

My  heart  was  heavy  still. 

Can  God,  I thought,  the  just,  the  groat. 
These  meaner  creatures  bless, 

And  yet  deny  to  man’s  estate 
The  boon  of  happiness  ? 

Tell  me,  ye  woods,  ye  smiling  plains, 

Ye  blessed  birds  around. 

In  which  of  nature’s  wide  domains 
Can  bliss  for  man  be  found  ! 

The  birds  wild  carolled  overhead, 

The  breeze  around  me  blew. 

And  nature’s  awful  chorus  said 
No  bliss  for  man  she  knew. 

I questioned  Love,  whcs  ^ early  ray 
So  rosy  bright  appears. 

And  heard  the  timid  genius  say 
His  light  was  dimmed  by  tears. 

I questioned  Friendship  : Friendship  sighed 
And  thus  her  answer  gave : — 

The  few  whom  fortune  never  turned 
Y/ere  withered  in  the  grave. 

« 

I asked  if  Vice  could  bliss  bestow  ? 

Vice  boasted  loud  and  well, 
liut,  fading  from  her  withered  brow, 

The  borrowed  roses  fell. 


CHRISTIAN  PATRIOTISM. 


149 


I sought  of  Feeling,  if  her  skill 
Could  soothe  the  wounded  breast ; 

And  found  her  mourning,  faint  and  still, 

For  others’  woes  distressed. 

I questioned  Virtue  ; Virtue  sighed. 

No  boon  could  she  dispense ; 

Nor  Virtue  was  her  name,  she  cried, 

But  humble  Penitence. 

I questioned  Death,  — the  grisly  shade 
Eelaxed  his  brow  severe ; 

And  “ I am  happiness,”  he  said, 

“ If  Virtue  guides  thee  here.” 

HEBER. 


CHRISTIAN  PATRIOTISM. 

Patriots  have  toiled,  and  in  their  country’s  cause 
Bled  nobly ; and  their  deeds,  as  they  deserve, 
Eeceive  proud  recompense.  We  give  in  charge 
Their  names  to  the  sweet  lyre.  The  historic  Muse, 
Proud  of  the  treasure,  marches  with  it  down 
To  latest  times  ; and  Sculpture,  in  her  turn. 

Gives  bond  in  stone  and  ever-during  brass 
To  guard  them,  and  to  immortalize  her  trust : 

But  fairer  wreaths  are  due,  though  never  paid. 

To  those  who,  posted  at  the  shrine  of  Truth, 

Have  fallen  in  her  defence.  A patriot’s  blood. 

Well  spent  in  such  a strife,  may  earn,  indeed. 

And  for  a time  insure,  to  his  loved  land 
The  sweets  of  liberty  and  equal  laws  ; 


150 


SELECTIONS  IN  POETRY. 


But  martyrs  struggle  for  a brighter  prizj, 

And  win  it  with  more  pain.  Their  blood  is  shed 
In  confirmation  of  the  noblest  claim, 

Our  claim  to  feed  upon  immortal  truth, 

To  walk  with  God,  to  be  divinely  free. 

To  soar,  and  to  anticipate  the  skies. 

Yet  few  remember  them.  They  lived  unknown, 
Till  persecution  dragged  them  into  fame, 

And  chased  them  up  to  Heaven.  Their  ashes  flew 
— No  marble  tells  us  whither.  With  their  names 
No  bard  embalms  and  sanctifies  his  song  : 

And  History,  so  warm  on  meaner  themes, 

Is  cold  on  this.  She  execrates,  indeed. 

The  tyranny  that  doomed  them  to  the  fire, 

But  gives  the  glorious  sufferers  little  praise. 

He  is  the  freeman  whom  the  truth  makes  free. 
And  all  are  slaves  beside.  There ’s  not  a chain. 
That  hellish  foes,  confederate  for  his  harm. 

Can  wind  around  him,  but  he  casts  it  off 
With  as  much  ease  as  Samson  his  green  withas. 

He  looks  abroad  into  the  varied  field 
Of  nature,  and,  though  poor,  perhaps,  compared 
With  those  whose  mansions  glitter  in  his  sight. 
Calls  the  delightful  scenery  all  his  own. 

His  are  the  mountains,  and  the  valleys  his, 

And  the  resplendent  rivers.  His  to  enjoy 
With  a propriety  that  none  can  feel. 

But  who,  with  filial  confidence  inspired, 

Can  lift  to  Heaven  an  unpresumptuous  eye. 

And  smiling  say,  — “ My  father  made  them  all.” 

COWPEP.. 


THE  DESERTED  HOUSE. THE  LIGHT  OE  STAR5.  151 

THE  DESERTED  HOUSE. 

Life  and  Thought  have  gone  away 
Side  by  side, 

Leaving  door  and  window  wide : 

Careless  tenants  they ! 

All  within  is  dark  as  night : 

In  the  windows  is  no  light ; 

And  no  murmur  at  the  door, 

So  frequent  on  its  hinge  before. 

Come  away  : no  more  of  mirth 

Is  here,  or  merry-making  sound. 

The  house  was  builded  of  the  earth. 

And  shall  fall  again  to  ground. 

Come  away  : for  Life  and  Thought 
Here  no  longer  dwell ; 

But  in  a city  glorious,  — 

A great  and  distant  city,  — they  have  bought 
A mansion  incorruptible. 

Would  they  could  have  stayed  with  us  ! 

TENNYSON. 


THE  LIGHT  OF  STARS. 

The  night  is  come,  but  not  too  soon  ; 

And,  sinking  silently, 

All  silently,  the  little  moon 
Drops  down  behind  the  sky. 

There  is  no  light  in  earth  or  heaven. 
But  the  cold  light  of  stars  ; 

And  the  first  watch  of  night  is  given 
To  the  red  planet  Mars. 


152 


SELECTIONS  IN  POETRY. 


Is  it  the  tender  star  of  love,  — 

The  star  of  love  and  dreams  ? 

0 no  ! from  that  blue  tent  above, 

A hero’s  armor  gleams. 

And  earnest  thoughts  within  me  rise, 
When  I behold  afar. 

Suspended  in  the  evening  skies. 

The  shield  of  that  red  star. 

0 star  of  strength ! I see  thee  stand 
And  smile  upon  my  pain  ; 

Thou  beckonest  with  thy  mailed  hand, 
And  I am  strong  again. 

Within  my  breast  there  is  no  light. 
But  the  cold  light  of  stars ; 

1 give  the  first  watch  of  the  night 
To  the  red  planet  Mars. 

The  star  of  the  unconquered  will, 

He  rises  in  my  breast. 

Serene,  and  resolute,  and  still. 

And  calm,  and  self-possessed. 

And  thou,  too,  whosoe’er  thou  art, 
That  readest  this  brief  psalm, 

As  one  by  one  thy  hopes  depart, 

Be  resolute  and  calm. 

0,  fear  not  in  a world  like  this. 

And  thou  shalt  know,  ere  long, 

Know  how  sublime  a thing  it  is 
To  sufier  and  be  strong. 


LONGFELLOW 


I REMEMBER,  I REMEMBER. 


153 


I REMEMBER,  I REMEMBER. 

I REMEMBER,  I remember, 

The  house  where  I was  born. 

The  little  window  where  the  sun 
Came  peeping  in  at  morn  ; 

He  never  came  a wink  too  soon, 

Nor  brought  too  long  a day. 

But  now  I often  wish  the  night 
Had  borne  my  breath  away  ! 

I remember,  I remember. 

The  roses,  red  and  white. 

The  violets,  and  the  lily-cups, 

Those  flowers  made  of  light ! 

The  lilacs  where  the  robin  built. 

And  where  my  brother  set 
The  laburnum  on  his  birth-day,  — 

The  tree  is  living  yet ! 

I remember,  I remember, 

Where  I was  used  to  swing. 

And  thought  the  air  must  rush  as  fresh 
To  swallows  on  the  wing ; 

My  spirit  flew  in  feathers  then. 

That  is  so  heavy  now. 

And  summer  pools  could  hardly  cool 
The  fever  on  my  brow  ! 

I remember,  I remember, 

The  fir-trees  dark  and  high ; 

I used  to  think  their  slender  tops 
Were  close  against  the  sky  : 

7# 


154 


SELECTIONS  IN  POETllY. 


It  was  a childish  ignorance, 

But  now ’t  is  little  joy 

To  know  I ’m  further  ofi*  from  heaven 

Than  when  I was  a boy ! 

HOOD. 


THE  TRANQUIL  fflND. 

The  seas  are  quiet  when  the  winds  are  o’er,  — 

So  calm  are  we  when  passions  are  no  more  ! 

For  then  we  know  how  vain  it  was  to  boast 
Of  fleeting  things,  so  certain  to  be  lost. 

Clouds  of  afiection  from  our  younger  eyes 
Conceal  that  emptiness  which  age  descries ; 

The  soul’s  dark  cottage,  battered  and  decayed, 

Lets  in  new  lights  through  chinks  that  time  has  made. 

Stronger  by  weakness,  wiser,  men  become. 

As  they  draw  near  to  their  eternal  home  ; 

Leaving  the  old,  both  worlds  at  once  they  view. 

That  stand  upon  the  threshold  of  the  new. 

WALLER. 


THE  OLD  MAN’S  COIVIFORTS. 

“ You  are  old.  Father  William,”  the  young  man  cried  ; 

“ The  few  locks  which  are  left  you  are  gray  ; 

“ You  are  hale.  Father  William,  a hearty  old  man ; 
Now  tell  me  the  reason,  I pray.” 

“ In  the  days  of  my  youth,”  Father  William  replied, 

“ I remembered  that  youth  would  fly  fast. 

And  abused  not  my  health  and  my  vigor  at  first. 

That  I never  might  need  them  at  last.” 


TOO  LATE  I STAID- 


155 


“You  are  old,  Father  William,”  the  young  man  cried, 
“ And  pleasures  with  youth  pass  away  ; 

And  yet  you  lament  not  the  days  that  are  gone  ; 

Now  tell  me  the  reason,  I pray.” 

“ In  the  days  of  my  youth,”  Father  William  replied, 

“ I remembered  that  youth  could  not  last ; 

I thought  of  the  future,  whatever  I did. 

That  I never  might  grieve  for  the  past.” 

“You  are  old.  Father  William,”  the  young  man  cried, 
“ And  life  must  be  hastening  away  ; 

You  are  cheerful,  and  love  to  converse  upon  death ; 
Now  tell  me  the  reason,  I pray.” 

“ I am  cheerful,  young  man,”  Father  William  replied  ; 

“ Let  the  cause  thy  attention  engage ; 

In  the  days  of  my  youth  I remembered  my  God, 

And  He  hath  not  forgotten  my  age.” 

SOUTHEY. 


TOO  LATE  I STAID. 

Too  late  I staid  ; forgive  the  crime  ; 

Unheeded  flew  the  hours  ; 

How  noiseless  falls  the  foot  of  Time 
That  only  treads  on  flowers  I 

What  eye  with  clear  account  remarks 
The  ebbing  of  his  glass. 

When  all  its  sands  are  diamond  sparks, 
That  dazzle  as  they  pass  ? 

Ah  ! who  to  sober  measurement 
Time’s  happy  swiftness  brings. 
When  birds  of  Paradise  have  lent 
Their  plumage  for  his  wings  ? 


SPENCER. 


156 


SELECTIONS  IN  POETllV. 


LINES  ON  THE  DEATH  OF  KORNER. 

Charles  Theodore  Korner,  the  celebrated  young  German  poet  and  soldier,  was 
killed  in  a skirmish  with  a detachment  of  French  troops,  on  the  20th  of  August, 
1813,  a few  hours  after  the  composition  of  his  popular  piece,  “ The  Sword  Song.” 
lie  was  buried  at  the  village  of  Wobbelin,  in  Mecklenburgh,  under  a beautiful 
oak,  in  a recess  of  which  he  had  frequently  deposited  verses  composed  by  him 
while  campaigning  in  its  vicinity.  The  monument  erected  to  his  memory  is  of 
cast  iron ; and  the  upper  part  is  wrought  into  a lyre  and  sword,  a favorite  emblem 
of  Korner’s,  from  which  one  of  his  works  had  been  entitled.  Near  the  grave  of 
the  poet  is  that  of  his  only  sister,  who  died  of  grief  for  his  loss,  having  only  sur- 
vived him  long  enough  to  complete  his  portrait,  and  a drawing  of  his  burial- 
place.  The  above  cut  is  from  the  design  on  the  tomb  of  Korner. 

Green  wave  the  oak  forever  o’er  thy  rest. 

Thou  that  beneath  its  crowning  foliage  sleepest, 

And,  in  the  stillness  of  thy  country’s  breast, 

Thy  place  of  memory  as  an  altar  keepest ; 

Brightly  thy  spirit  o’er  her  hills  was  poured, 

Thou  of  the  Lyre  and  Sword  ! 

llest,  bard  ! rest,  soldier  ! — By  the  father’s  hand 
Here  shall  the  child  of  after  years  be  led, 


THE  LYRE  AND  SWORD. 


157 


With  his  wreath-offering  silently  to  stand 
In  the  hushed  presence  of  the  glorious  dead. 

Soldier  and  bard  ! for  thou  thy  path  hast  trod 
With  freedom  and  with  God. 

The  oak  waved  proudly  o’er  thy  burial-rite  ; 

On  thy  crowned  bier  to  slumber  warriors  bore  thee  ; 

And  with  true  hearts  thy  brethren  of  the  fight 

W ept  as  they  vailed  their  drooping  banners  o’er  thee ; 

And  the  deep  guns,  with  rolling  peal,  gave  token 
That  Lyre  and  Sword  were  broken. 

Thou  hast  a hero’s  tomb ; — a lowlier  bed 
Is  hers,  the  gentle  girl  beside  thee  lying,  — - 

The  gentle  girl,  that  bowed  her  fair  young  head 
When  thou  wert  gone,  in  silent  sorrow  dying. 

Brother,  true  friend  ! the  tender  and  the  brave,  — 

She  pined  to  share  thy  grave. 

Fame  was  thy  gift  from  others  ; but  for  her^ 

To  whom  the  wide  world  held  that  only  spot, 

She  loved  thee  ! — • lovely  in  your  lives  ye  were, 

And  in  your  early  deaths  divided  not. 

Thou  hast  thine  oak,  thy  trophy  : — what  hath  she  ? — 
Her  own  blest  place  by  thee  ! 

It  was  thy  spirit,  brother,  which  had  made 

The  bright  earth  glorious  to  her  thoughtful  eye, 

Since  first  in  childhood  ’midst  the  vines  ye  played, 

And  sent  glad  singing  through  the  free  blue  sky. 

Ye  were  but  two,  — and  when  that  spirit  passed. 

Woe  to  the  one,  the  last ! 


158 


SELECTIONS  IN  POETRY. 


Woe,  yet  not  long  ! — She  lingered  but  to  trace 
Thine  image  from  the  image  in  her  breast, 

Once,  once  again  to  see  that  buried  face 
But  smile  ujjon  her  ere  she  went  to  rest, — 

Too  sad  a smile  ! its  living  light  was  o’er  ; 

It  answered  hers  no  more. 

The  earth  grew  silent  when  thy  voice  departed, 

The  home  too  lonely  whence  thy  step  had  fled ; 
What  then  was  left  for  her,  the  faithful-hearted  ? 

Death,  death,  to  still  the  yearning  for  the  dead  ! 
Softly  she  perished  ; — be  the  Flower  deplored 
Here  with  the  Lyre  and  Sword  ! 

Have  ye  not  met  ere  now  ? — So  let  those  trust 
That  meet  for  moments  but  to  part  for  years ; 

That  weep,  watch,  pray,  to  hold  back  dust  from  dust,  ~ 
That  love,  where  love  is  but  a fount  of  tears. 
Brother  ! sweet  sister ! peace  around  ye  dwell : — 
Lyre,  Sword  and  Flower,  farewell ! 

MRS.  HEMAJfS 


THE  FLIGHT  OF  FAITH. 

The  bird  let  loose  in  eastern  skies, 

When  hastening 'fondly  home. 

Ne’er  stoops  to  earth  her  wing,  nor  flies 
Where  idle  wanderers  roam ; 

But  high  she  shoots  through  air  and  light, 
Above  all  low  delay. 

Where  nothing  earthly  bounds  her  flight. 
Nor  shadow  dims  her  way. 


THE  SKY-LARK. 


So  grant  me,  God,  from  every  snare 
And  stain  of  passion  free. 

Aloft,  through  Virtue’s  purer  air. 

To  wing  my  course  to  Thee ; 

No  sin  to  cloud,  no  lure  to  stay 
3Iy  Soul,  as  home  she  springs ; 

Tliy  sunshine  on  her  joyful  way. 

Thy  freedom  in  her  wings  ! 

MOORE. 


THE  SKY-LARK. 

Bird  of  the  wilderness, 

Blithesome  and  cumberless. 

Sweet  be  thy  matin  o’er  moorland  and  lea ! 
Emblem  of  happiness, 

Blest  is  thy  dwelling-place  — 

0 to  abide  in  the  desert  with  thee ! 

Wild  is  thy  lay  and  loud 
Far  in  the  downy  cloud. 

Love  gives  it  energy,  love  gave  it  birth. 
Where,  on  thy  dewy  wing, 

"VVliere  art  thou  journeying  ? 

Thy  lay  is  in  heaven,  thy  love  is  on  earth. 

O’er  fell  and  fountain  sheen. 

O’er  moor  and  mountain  green. 

O’er  the  red  streamer  that  heralds  the  day. 
Over  the  cloudlet  dim. 

Over  the  rainbow’s  rim, 
jMusical  cherub,  soar,  singing,  away  I 
Then,  when  the  gloaming  comes, 

Low  in  the  heather  blooms 


160 


SELECT  POETRY. 


Sweet  will  thy  welcome  and  bed  of  love  be  ! 
Emblem  of  happiness, 

Blest  is  thy  dwelling-place  — 

0 to  abide  in  the  desert  with  the ! 

IIOGG. 


BLESSING  OF  A CONCEALED  FUTURE. 

Heaven  from  all  creatures  hides  the  book  of  Fate 
All  but  the  page  prescribed,  their  present  state  : 
From  brutes  what  men,  from  men  what  spirits  know 
Or  who  could  suffer  being  here  below  ? 

The  lamb  thy  riot  dooms  to  bleed  to-day, 

Had  he  thy  reason,  would  he  skip  and  play  ? 
Pleased  to  the  last,  he  crops  the  flowery  food. 

And  licks  the  hand  just  raised  to  shed  his  blood. 

0,  blindness  to  the  future ! kindly  given, 

That  each  may  fill  the  circle  marked  by  Fleaven : 
Who  sees  with  equal  eye,  as  God  of  all, 

A hero  perish,  or  a sparrow  fall, 

Atoms  or  systems  into  ruin  hurled. 

And  now  a bubble  burst,  and  now  a world. 

Hope  humbly,  then  ; with  trembling  pinions  soar 
Wait  the  great  teacher.  Death  ; and  God  adore. 
What  future  bliss,  he  gives  not  thee  to  know, 

But  gives  that  hope  to  be  thy  blessing  now. 

Hope  springs  eternal  in  the  human  breast : 

Man  never  Is,  but  always  To  be  blest : 

The  soul,  uneasy,  and  confined  from  home. 

Bests  and  expatiates  in  a life  to  come  ! 


POPE. 


LYCIDAS. 


161 


LYCIDAS. 

In  the  monody  of  Lycidas,  the  author  bewails  a learned  friend,  drowned  in  his 
passage  on  the  Irish  seas,  1637.  The  extracts  here  given  will  serve  as  introduc- 
tory to  the  study  of  the  whole  monody. 

Yet  once  more,  0 ye  laurels,  and  once  more. 

Ye  myrtles  brown,  with  ivy  never  sere, 

I come  to  pluck  your  berries,  harsh  and  crude. 

And,  with  forced  fingers  rude. 

Shatter  your  leaves  before  the  mellowing  year. 

Bitter  constraint  and  sad  occasion  dear 
Compels  me  to  disturb  your  season  due ; 

For  Lycidas  is  dead,  dead  ere  his  prime,  — 

Young  Lycidas,  and  hath  not  left  his  peer  ! 

Who  would  not  sing  for  Lycidas  ? He  knew 
Himself  to  sing,  and  build  the  lofty  rhyme. 

He  must  not  float  upon  his  watery  bier 
Unwept,  and  welter  to  the  parching  wind. 

Without  the  meed  of  some  melodious  tear. 

For  we  were  nursed  upon  the  self-same  liill, 

Fed  the  same  flock,  by  fountain,  shade  and  rill. 

Together  both,  ere  the  high  lawns  appeared 
Under  the  opening  eyelids  of  the  morn. 

We  drove  a-field,  and  both  together  heard 
What  time  the  gray  fly  winds  her  sultry  horn, 

Battening  our  flocks  with  the  fresh  dews  of  night, 

Oft  till  the  star  that  rose  at  evening  bright 

Toward  heaven’s  descent  had  sloped  his  westering  wheel. 

But,  0 the  heavy  change,  now  thou  art  gone ! 

Now  thou  art  gone,  and  never  must  return  ! 

Thee,  shepherd,  thee  the  woods  and  desert  caves. 

With  wild  thyme  and  the  gadding  vine  o’ergrowuj 
And  all  their  echoes,  mourn. 

R 


1G2 


SELECTIONS  IN  TOETRY. 


Tlie  willows,  and  the  hazel  copses  green, 

Shall  now  no  more  be  seen 

Fanning  their  joyous  leaves  to  thy  soft  lays. 

As  killing  as  the  canker  to  the  rose. 

Or  taint-worm  to  the  weanling  herds  that  graze  ; 

Or  frost  to  flowers,  that  their  gay  wardrobe  wear, 
When  first  the  white  thorn  blows ; — 

Such,  Lycidas,  thy  loss  to  shepherd’s  ear. 

Where  were  ye.  Nymphs,  when  the  remorseless  deep 
Closed  o’er  the  head  of  your  loved  Lycidas  ? 

For  neither  were  ye  playing  on  the  steep. 

Where  your  old  bards,  the  famous  Druids,  lie, 

Nor  on  the  shaggy  top  of  Mona  high, 

Nor  yet  where  Deva  spreads  her  wizard  stream. 

Ay  me  ! I fondly  dream  ! 

Had  ye  been  there  — for  what  could  that  have  done  ? 
What  could  the  Muse  herself,  that  Orpheus  bore, 

The  Muse  herself,  for  her  enchanting  son, 

Whom  universal  Nature  did  lament. 

When,  by  the  rout  that  made  the  hideous  roar, 

His  gory  visage  down  the  stream  was  sent, 

Down  the  swift  Hebrus  to  the  Lesbian  shore  ? 

Alas  ! what  boots  it  with  incessant  care 
To  tend  the  homely,  slighted  shepherd’s  trade, 

And  strictly  meditate  the  thankless  Muse  ? 

Were  it  not  better  done,  as  others  use, 

To  sport  with  Amaryllis  in  the  shade, 

Or  with  the  tangles  of  Neaera’s  hair  ? 

Fame  is  the  spur  that  the  clear  spirit  doth  raise 
(That  last  infirmity  of  noble  minds) 

To  scorn  delights,  and  live  laborious  days ; 

13ut  the  fair  guerdon  when  we  hope  to  find, 


LYCIDAS. 


163 


And  think  to  burst  out  into  sudden  blaze, 

Comes  the  blind  Fury  with  the  abhorrM  shears, 

And  slits  the  thin-spun  life.  “ But  not  the  praise,” 
Phoebus  replied,  and  touched  my  trembling  ears : 

‘‘  Fame  is  no  plant  that  grows  on  mortal  soil. 

Nor  in  the  glistering  foil. 

Set  off  to  the  world,  nor  in  broad  rumor  lies  ; 

But  lives  and  spreads  aloft  by  those  pure  eyes. 

And  perfect  witness  of  all-judging  Jove ; — 

As  he  pronounces  lastly  on  each  deed. 

Of  so  much  fame  in  heaven  expect  thy  meed.” 

Weep  no  more,  woful  shepherds,  weep  no  more  ! 

For  Lycidas,  your  sorrow,  is  not  dead. 

Sunk  though  he  be  beneath  the  watery  floor  : 

So  sinks  the  day-star  in  the  ocean  bed, 

And  yet  anon  repairs  his  drooping  head. 

And  tricks  his  beams,  and  with  new-spangled  ore 
Flames  in  the  forehead  of  the  morning  sky : 

So  Lycidas  sunk  low,  but  mounted  high. 

Through  the  dear  might  of  Him  that  walked  the  waves ; 
Where  other  groves  and  other  streams  along. 

With  nectar  pure  his  oozy  locks  he  laves. 

And  hears  the  unexpressive  nuptial  song. 

In  the  blest  kingdoms  meek  of  joy  and  love. 

There  entertain  him  all  the  saints  above, 

In  solemn  troops  and  sweet  societies. 

That  sing,  and  singing,  in  their  glory  move, 

And  wipe  the  tears  forever  from  his  eyes. 


MILTOir. 


164 


SELECTIONS  IN  POETRY. 


THE  ALPINE  STORM. 

The  sky  is  changed  ! — and  such  a change  ! 0 night, 

And  storm,  and  darkness,  ye  are  wondrous  strong ; 

Yet  lovely  in  your  strength^  as  is  the  light 
Of  a dark  eye  in  woman  ! Far  along, 

From  peak  to  peak,  the  rattling  crags  among, 

Leaps  the  live  thunder  ! Not  from  one  lone  cloud. 

But  every  mountain  now  hath  found  a tongue, 

And  Jura  answers,  through  her  misty  shroud, 

Back  to  the  joyous  Alps,  who  call  to  her  aloud  ! 

And  this  ife  in  the  night : — ^ Most  glorioas  night ! 

Thou  wort  not  sent  for  slumber ! let  me  be 
A sharer  in  thy  fierce  and  far  delight,  •=^- 
A portion  of  the  tempest  and  of  thee  I 
Flow  the  lit  lake  shines,  a phosphoric  sea. 

And  the  big  rain  comes  dancing  to  the  earth  ! 

And  now  again ’t  is  black,  — and  now  the  glee 
Of  the  loud  hills  shakes  with  its  mountain-mirth. 

As  if  they  did  rejoice  o’er  a young  earthquake’s  birth. 

Now,  where  the  swift  Bhone  cleaves  his  way  between 
Heights  which  appear  as  lovers  who  have  parted 
In  hate,  whose  mining  depths  so  intei  vene, 

That  they  can  meet  no  more,  though  broken-hearted ; 
Though  in  their  souls,  which  thus  each  other  thwarted. 
Love  was  the  very  root  of  the  fond  rage 
Which  blighted  their  life’s  bloom,  and  then  departed  : — 
Itself  expired,  but  leaving  them  an  age 
Of  years  all  winters,  war  within  themselves  to  wage. 

Now,  where  the  quick  Bhone  thus  has  cleft  his  way, 

The  mightiest  of  storms  hath  ta’en  his  stand  : 


EOR  COMFORT  IN  DEATH. 


165 


For  here,  not  one,  but  many,  make  their  play. 

And  fling  their  thunderbolts  from  hand  to  hand, 
Flashing  and  cast  around ; of  all  the  band, 

The  brightest  through  these  parted  hills  hath  forked 
His  lightnings,  — as  if  he  did  understand 
That  in  such  gaps  as  desolation  worked. 

There  the  hot  shaft  should  blast  whatever  therein  lurked. 

Sky,  mountains,  rivers,  winds,  lake,  lightnings!  ye. 
With  night,  and  clouds,  and  thunder,  and  a soul 
To  make  these  felt  and  feeling,  well  may  be. 

Things  that  have  made  me  watchful ; the  far  roll 
Of  your  departing  voices  is  the  knoll 
Of  what  in  me  is  sleepless,  — if  I rest. 

But  where  of  ye,  0 tempests  ! is  the  goal  ? 

Are  ye  like  those  within  the  human  breast  ? 

Or  do-ye  find  at  length,  like  eagles,  some  high  nest  ? 

BYRON. 


FOB  COMFOBT  IN  DEATH. 

In  the  hour  of  my  distress, 

When  temptations  me  oppress, 

And  when  I my  sins  confess. 

Sweet  Spirit,  comfort  me  ! 

When  I lie  within  my  bed, 

Sick  in  heart,  and  sick  in  head, 

And  with  doubts  disquieted. 

Sweet  Spirit,  comfort  me  ! • 

When  the  house  doth  sigh  and  weep, 
And  the  world  is  drowned  in  sleep, 
Yet  mine  eyes  the  watch  do  keep  ; 
Sweet  Spirit,  comfort  me  ! 


166 


sp:lections  in  poetry. 


When  the  passing  bell  doth  toll, 

And  the  F uries,  in  a shoal, 

Come  to  fright  my  parting  soul, 

Sweet  Spirit,  comfort  me  ! 

When,  God  knows,  I ’m  tost  about, 

Either  with  despair  or  doubt,  — 

Yet,  before  the  glass  be  out. 

Sweet  Spirit,  comfort  me  ! 

When  the  Tempter  "me  pursu’th 
AVith  the  sins  of  all  my  youth. 

And  half  damns  me  with  untruth. 

Sweet  Spirit,  comfort  me  ! 

When  the  judgment  is  revealed. 

And  that  opened  wliich  was  sealed, 

AVhen  to  Thee  I have  appealed. 

Sweet  Spirit,  comfort  me  ! 

ROBERT  HERRICK. 


THE  SERVLVN  YOUTH  TO  A TRAVELLER 

0 LEAVE  me  ! 0 leave  me  ! 

My  wants  are  supplied,  and  my  steed  is  the  fleetest 
That  dwells  in  our  vales ; and  my  love  is  the  sweetest, 
The  sweetest  of  maidens  ! 0 leave  me  I 
You  do  not,  you  cannot,  deceive  me  ! 

You  say  there  are  brighter 
And  richer  domains  than  the  land  of  our  tillage, 

And  cities  to  which  our  Belgrade  is  a village  : 

But  go  to  my  love  and  invite  her ; 

Will  your  lands  and  your  cities  delight  her  ? 


MY  BIRTH-DAY. 


167 


0 no  ! she  will  tell  thee 

That  the  place  of  our  birth  of  all  places  is  dearest, 

That  the  heart  curls  its  tendrils  round  that  which  is  nearest ; 
She  will  smile  at  thy  tales  of  the  wealthy, 

And  to  shame  and  to  silence  compel  thee. 

Then  go,  thou  false  rover  ! 

We  will  cling  to  the  scenes  which  our  infancy  clung  to. 

We  will  sing  the  old  songs  which  our  fathers  have  sung  too; 
To  our  country  be  true  as  a lover. 

Till  its  green  sod  our  ashes  shall  cover ! 


MY  BIRTH^DAY. 

“My  Birth-day ! ^’  — what  a different  sound 
That  word  had  in  my  youthful  ears ! 

And  how,  each  time  the  day  comes  round. 
Less  and  less  white  its  mark  appears  ! 

When  first  our  scanty  years  are  toldj 

It  seems  like  pastime  to  grow  old ; 

And,  as  Youth  counts  the  shining  links 
That  Time  around  him  binds  so  fast. 

Pleased  with  the  task,  he  little  thinks 
How  hard  that  chain  will  press  at  last. 

Vain  was  the  man,  and  false  as  vain. 

Who  said,  — “ Were  he  ordained  to  run 

His  long  career  of  life  again. 

He  would  do  all  that  he  had  done.” 

Ah,  ’t  is  not  thus  the  voice  that  dwells 
In  sober  birth-days  speaks  to  me ! 

Far  otherwise,  — of  time  it  tells 
Lavished  unwisely,  carelessly ; 


SELECTIONS  IN  POETRY. 


Of  counsel  mocked  ; of  talents,  made 
Haply  for  high  and  pure  designs, 

But  oft,  like  Israel’s  incense,  laid 
Upon  unholy,  earthly  shrines; 

Of  nursing  many  a wrong  desire  ; 

Of  wandering  after  Love  too  far, 
x\nd  taking  every  meteor  fire, 

That  crossed  my  pathway,  for  his  star ; — 
All  this  it  tells,  and,  could  I trace 
The  imperfect  picture  o’er  again, 

^Vith  powder  to  add,  retouch,  efiace. 

The  light  and  shades,  the  joy  and  pain, 
ITow  little  of  the  past  would  stay ! 

How  quickly  all  should  melt  away  ! — 

All,  but  that  freedom  of  the  mind. 

Which  hath  been  more  than  wealth  to  me  ; 
Those  friendships  in  my  boyhood  twined. 

And  kept  till  now  unchangingly ; 

And  that  dear  home,  that  saving  ark. 

Where  Love’s  true  light  at  last  I ’ve  found. 
Cheering  within  when  all  grows  dark. 

And  comfortless,  and  stormy,  round  ! 

MOORE. 


VENI  CREATOR. 

Creator  Spirit,  by  whose  aid 
The  world’s  foundations  first  were  laid. 
Come,  visit  every  pious  mind  ; 

Come,  pour  thy  joys  on  human  kind ; 
From  sin  and  sorrow  set  us  free. 

And  make  thy  temples  worthy  thee  ! 


VENI  CREATOR. 


169 


0,  source  of  uncreated  light, 

The  Father’s  promised  Paraclete  ! ^ 

Thrice  holy  fount,  thrice  holy  fire. 

Our  hearts  with  heavenly  love  inspire  ! 

Come,  and  thy  sacred  unction  bring 
To  sanctify  us  while  we  sing  ! 

Plenteous  of  grace,  descend  from  high. 

Rich  in  thy  seven-fold  energy  ! 

Thou  strength  of  his  Almighty  hand. 

Whose  power  does  heaven  and  earth  command. 
Proceeding  Spirit,  our  defence. 

Who  dost  the  gift  of  tongues  dispense. 

And  crown ’st  thy  gift  with  eloquence ! 

Refine  and  purge  our  earthly  parts : 

But,  0,  inflame  and  fire  our  hearts  ! 

Our  frailties  help,  our  vice  control. 

Submit  the  senses  to  the  soul ; 

And,  when  rebellious  they  are  grown. 

Then  lay  thy  hand,  and  hold  them  down. 

Chase  from  our  minds  the  infernal  foe. 

And  peace,  the  fruit  of  love,  bestow  ; 

And,  lest  our  feet  should  step  astray. 

Protect  and  guide  us  in  the  way  ! 

Make  us  eternal  truths  receive. 

And  practise  all  that  we  believe : 

Give  us  thyself,  that  we  may  see 
The  Father  and  the  Son,  by  thee  ! 

Paraclete,  from  two  Greek  words,  meaning  to  call,  is  the  title  given, 
in  the  original  Greek  of  the  New  Testament,  to  the  Holy  Spirit,  by  our 
Saviour,  — John  14  : 16.  The  word  is  translated  comforter. 


170 


SELECTIONS  IN  TOETRY. 


Immortal  honor,  endless  fame, 
Attend  the  Almighty  Father’s  name ! 
The  Saviour  Son  be  glorified. 

Who  for  lost  man’s  redemption  died  I 
And  equal  adoration  be. 

Eternal  Paraclete,  to  thee  ! 

DRYDEN. 


GLIMPSES  OF  FUTURE  LIFE. 

Dear,  beauteous  Death  ! the  jewel  of  the  just ! 

Shilling  nowhere  but  in  the  dark  ! 

What  mysteries  do  lie  beyond  thy  dust, 

Could  man  outlook  that  mark ! 

lie  that  hath  found  some  fledged  bird’s  nest  may  know. 
At  first  sight,  if  the  bird  be  flown  ; 

But  what  fair  field  or  grove  he  sings  in  now, 

That  is  to  him  unknown. 

And  yet,  as  angels,  in  some  brighter  dreams, 

Call  to  the  soul,  when  man  doth  sleep. 

So  some  strange  thoughts  transcend  our  wonted  themes. 
And  into  glory  peep  ! 

HENRY  VAUGHAN. 


TO  LITTLE  MARY. 

I ’m  bidden,  little  Mary, 

To  write  verses  unto  thee : 

I ’d  fain  obey  the  bidding. 

If  it  rested  but  with  me ; 

But  the  mistresses  I ’m  bound  to 
(Nine  ladies  hard  to  please). 


TO  LITTLE  MARY. 


171 


Of  all  their  stores  poetic 
So  closely  keep  the  keys, 

T is  only  now  and  then, 

By  good  luck,  as  we  may  say, 

A couplet  or  a rhyme  or  two 
Falls  fairly  in  my  way. 

Fruit  forced  is  never  half  so  sweet 
As  that  comes  quite  in  season  ; 

But  some  folks  must  be  satisfied 
With  rhyme,  in  spite  of  reason ; 
So,  Muses,  all  befriend  me,  — 

Albeit  of  help  so  chary,  — 

To  string  the  pearls  of  poesy 
For  loveliest  little  Mary. 

And  yet,  ye  pagan  damsels. 

Not  over-fond  am  I 
To  invoke  your  haughty  favors. 

Your  fount  of  Castaly. 

I ’ve  sipped  a purer  fountain ; 

I Ve  decked  a holier  shrine ; 

I own  a mightier  mistress ; 

0 Nature,  thou  art  mine ! 

And  only  to  that  well-head. 

Sweet  Mary,  I ’ll  resort. 

For  just  an  artless  verse  or  two,  — 

A simple  strain,  and  short,  — 
Befitting  well  a pilgrim 

Way-worn  with  care  and  strife, — 
To  offer  thee,  young  traveller. 

In  the  morning  track  of  life. 


172 


SELECTIONS  IN  POETRY. 


There ’s  many  a one  will  tell  thee 
’T  is  all  with  roses  gay ; 

There ’s  many  a one  will  tell  thee 
’T  is  thorny  all  the  way. 

Deceivers  arc  they  every  one, 

Dear  child,  who  thus  pretend  : 
God’s  ways  are  not  unequal ; 

Make  him  thy  trusted  Friend, 
And  many  a path  of  pleasantness 
He  ’ll  clear  away  for  thee. 
However  dark  and  intricate 
The  labyrinth  may  be. 

I need  not  wish  thee  beauty, 

I need  not  wish  thee  grace ; 
Already  both  are  budding 
In  that  infant  form  and  face. 

I will  not  wish  thee  grandeur, 

I will  not  wish  thee  wealth ; 

But  only  a contented  heart. 

Peace,  competence,  and  health ; 
Fond  friends  to  love  thee  dearly. 
And  honest  friends  to  chide. 

And  faithful  ones  to  cleave  to  thee. 
Whatever  may  betide. 

And  now,  my  little  Mary, 

If  better  things  remain 
Unheeded  in  my  blindness. 
Unnoticed  in  my  strain, 

I ’ll  sum  them  up  succinctly 
In  “English  undefiled,”  — 

My  mother-tongue’s  best  benison,  — 
God  bless  thee,  precious  child  ! 


SLEtP. 


173 


SLEtiP. 

He  giveth  His  beloved  sleep.  — Psalm  127  : 2. 

Of  all  the  thoughts  of  God  that  are 
Borne  inward  unto  souls  afar, 

Along  the  Psalmist’s  music  deep, 

Now  tell  me  if  that  any  is 

Por  gift  or  grace,  surpassing  this,  — 

He  giveth  His  beloved,  sleep  ” ? 

What  would  we  give  to  our  beloved  ? 

The  hero’s  heart,  to  be  unmoved,  — 

The  poet’s  star4uned  harp,  to  sweep,  — 
The  patriot’s  Voice,  to  teach  and  rouse,  — 
The  monarch’s  crown,  to  light  the  brows 
“ He  giveth  His  beloved,  sleep  ! ” 

What  do  we  give  to  our  beloved  ? 

A little  faith,  all  undisproved,  — 

A little  dust,  to  overweep,  — 

And  bitter  memories,  to  make 
The  whole  earth  blasted  for  our  sake  ! 

“ He  giveth  His  beloved,  sleep ! ” 

“ Sleep  soft,  beloved  ! ” we  sometimes  say. 

But  have  no  tune  to  charm  away 

Sad  dreams,  that  through  the  eyelids  creep. 


174 


SELECTIONS  IN  POETRY. 


But  never  doleful  dream  again 
Shall  break  the  happy  slumber,  when 
“ He  giveth  His  beloved,  sleep  ! ” 

0 earth,  so  full  of  dreary  noises  ! 

0 men,  with  wailing  in  your  voices! 

0 delved  gold,  the  wailers  heap  ! 

0 strife,  0 curse,  that  o’er  it  fall ! 

God  makes  a silence  through  you  all. 

And  giveth  His  beloved,  sleep  ! ” 

His  dews  drop  mutely  on  the  hill. 

His  cloud  above  it  saileth  still ; 

Though  on  its  slope  men  sow  and  reap. 

More  softly  than  the  dew  is  shed. 

Or  cloud  is  floated  overhead, 

“ He  giveth  His  beloved,  sleep ! ” 

Yea,  men  may  wonder,  while  they  scan 
A living,  thinking,  feeling  man 
Confirmed,  in  such  a rest  to  keep  : 

But  angels  say,  — and  through  the  word 

1 think  their  happy  smile  is  heard, 

“ He  giveth  His  beloved,  sleep  ! ” 

For  me,  my  heart,  that  erst  did  go 
Most  like  a tired  child  at  a show. 

That  sees  through  tears  the  jugglers  leap, 

Would  now  its  weary  vision  close,  — 

Would,  childlike,  on  His  love  repose, 

Who  “ giveth  His  beloved,  sleep ! ” 

And  friends  ! — dear  friends ! — when  it  shall  be 
That  this  low  breath  is  gone  from  me. 


CHARACTER  OF  A HAPPY  LIFE. 


175 


And  round  my  bier  ye  come  to  weep, 

Let  one,  most  loving  of  you  all. 

Say,  ‘‘  Not  a tear  must  o’er  her  fall,  — 

‘ lie  givetli  His  beloved,  sleep ! ’ ” 

Mils.  BROWNING. 


CHARACTER  OE  A HAPPY  LIFE. 

How  happy  is  he  born  and  taught, 

That  serveth  not  another’s  will ; 

Whose  armor  is  his  honest  thought, 

And  simple  truth  his  utmost  skill ! 

Whose  passions  not  his  masters  are. 
Whose  soul  is  still  prepared  for  death. 

Untied  unto  the  worldly  care 

Of  public  fame,  or  private  breath ! 

Who  envies  none  that  chance  doth  raise. 
Or  vice ; who  never  understood 

How  deepest  wounds  are  given  by  praise ; 
Nor  rules  of  state,  but  rules  of  good ; 

Who  hath  his  life  from  rumors  freed. 
Whose  conscience  is  his  strong  retreat ; 

Whose  state  can  neither  flatterers  feed. 
Nor  ruin  make  oppressors  great ; 

Who  God  doth  late  and  early  pray 
More  of  his  grace  than  gifts  to  lend  ; 

And  entertains  the  harmless  day 
With  a religious  book  or  friend ; — 

This  man  is  freed  from  servile  bands 
Of  hope  to  rise,  or  fear  to  fall ; 

Lord  of  himself,  though  not  of  lands  ; 
And,  having  nothing,  yet  hath  all. 


WOTTON. 


176 


selections  in  poetry. 


MOONLIGHT. 

How  sweet  the  moonlight  sleeps  upon  this  bank  ! 
Here  will  we,  sit,  and  let  the  sounds  of  music 
Creep  in  our  ears  ; soft  stillness  and  the  night 
Become  the  touches  of  sweet  harmony. 

Sit,  Jessica  : look,  how  the  floor  of  heaven 
Is  thick  inlaid  with  patines  of  bright  gold ! 

There ’s  not  the  smallest  orb  which  thou  bchold’st, 
But  in  his  motion  like  an  angel  sings. 

Still  quiring  to  the  young-eyed  cherubiins : 

Such  harmony  is  in  immortal  souls ; 

But,  whilst  this  muddy  vesture  of  decay 
Doth  grossly  close  it  in,  we  cannot  hear  it. 

SHAKSPEARE. 


STRENGTH  FROM  ABOVE. 

Many  are  the  sayings  of  the  wise. 

In  ancient  and  in  modern  books  enrolled, 

Extolling  patience  as  the  truest  fortitude ; 

And  to  the  bearing  well  of  all  calamities. 

All  chances  incident  to  man’s  frail  life, 

Consolatories  writ 

With  studied  argument,  and  much  persuasion  sought, 
Lenient  of  grief  and  anxious  thought ; 

But  with  the  afflicted  in  his  pangs  their  sound 

Little  prevails,  or  rather  seems  a tune 

Harsh,  and  of  dissonant  mood  from  his  complaint ; 

Unless  he  feel  within 

Some  source  of  consolation  from  above, 

Secret  refreshings,  that  repair  his  strength, 

And  fainting  spirits  uphold. 


MILTON 


A SONG  OF  CONTRADICTIONS. 


A SONG  OF  CONTRADICTIONS. 

The  Passions,  in  festival  meeting, 

I saw  seated  round,  in  a dream ; 

And  vow,  by  my  hatred  of  cheating. 

The  ^Passions  are  not  what  they  seem. 

There ’s  mirth  under  faces  the  gravest. 

There ’s  woe  under  visages  droll ; 

There ’s  fear  in  the  breast  of  the  bravest, 

And  light  in  the  desolate  soul. 

Thus  Joy,  in  my  singular  vision. 

Sat  sobbing  and  gnashing  his  teeth ; 

While  Gentleness  scoffed  in  derision, 

And  Hope  picked  the  buds  from  his  wreath* 

Despair,  her  tight  bodice  unlacing, 

With  laughter  seemed  ready  to  die  ; 

And  Hate,  her  companions  embracing. 

Won  each  with  a smile  or  a sigh. 

Then  Peace  bellowed  louder  and  louder. 

For  Freedom,  sent  off  to  the  hulks ; 

Fear  sat  on  a barrel  of  powder, 

And  Pleasure  stood  by  in  the  sulks* 

Here  Dignity  shoots  like  a rocket 
Past  Grace,  who  is  rolling  in  fat  j 

There  Probity ’s  picking  a pocket. 

Here  Pit}^  sits  skinning  a cat. 

Then  Temperance,  reeling  off  quite  full. 

Charged  Friendship  with  drugging  her  drau 

She  vowed  it  was  Love  that  was  spiteful. 
While  Charity,  blaming  all,  laughed  ; 

8=^  L 


178 


SELECTIONS  IN  POETllY. 


When  Rage,  with  the  blandest  expression, 

And  Vengeance,  low-voiced  like  a child. 

Cried,  “ Mercy,  forgive  the  transgression  ! ' 

Rut  Mercy  looked  horribly  wild. 

Old  Wisdom  was  worshipping  Fashion, 

And  J ollity  dozing  in  gloom  ; 

While  Meekness  was  foaming  with  passion. 

And  Misery  danced  round  the  room. 

Sweet  Envy  tripped  off  to  her  garret. 

Bright  Malice  smiled  worthy  of  trust. 

Gay  Want  was  enjoying  his  claret. 

And  Luxury  gnawed  a dry  crust. 

At  Pride,  as  she  served  up  the  dinner, 

Humility  turned  up  her  nose  ; 

Suspicion  shook  hands  with  each  sinner. 

While  Candor  shunned  all,  as  her  foes. 

There ’s  mirth  under  faces  the  gravest, 

There ’s  woe  under  visages  droll ; 

There ’s  fear  in  the  breast  of  the  bravest, 

There ’s  light  in  the  desolate  soul. 

LAMAN  BLANCHARD. 


THE  WIDOW  OF  NAIN. 

Wake  not,  0 mother,  sounds  of  lamentation ! 

Weep  not,  0 widow,  weep  not  hopelessly ! 

Strong  is  his  arm,  the  bringer  of  salvation ; 

Strong  is  the  word  of  God  to  succor  thee. 

Bear  forth  the  cold  corpse  slowly,  slowly  bear  him  : 

Hide  his  pale  features  with  the  sable  pall : 

Chide  not  the  sad  one  wildly  weeping  near  him  : 
Widowed  and  childless,  she  has  lost  her  all. 


THE  SONG  OF  THE  SHIRT. 


179 


Why  pause  the  mourners  ? Who  forbids  our  weeping? 

Who  the  dark  pomp  of  sorrow  has  delayed  ? 

“ Set  down  the  bier,  — he  is  not  dead,  but  sleeping. 
Young  man,  arise ! ” He  spake,  and  was  obeyed. 

Change,  then,  0 sad  one,  grief  to  exultation ; 

Worship  and  fall  before  Messiah’s  knee. 

Strong  was  his  arm,  the  bringer  of  salvation, 

Strong  was  the  word  of  Cod  to  succor  thee. 

HEUER. 


TPIE  SONG  OF  THE  .SHIRT. 

With  fingers  weary  and  worn. 

With  eyelids  heavy  and  red, 

A woman  sat,  in  unwomanly  rags, 
Plying  her  needle  and  thread. 

Stitch,  — stitch,  — stitch,  - — 

In  poverty,  hunger  ajid  dirt, 

And  still,  with  a voice  of  dolorous  pitch, 
She  sang  the  “ Song  of  the  Shirt ! ’ 

Work,  — work,  — work,  — 

While  the  cock  is  crowing  aloof! 

And  work,  — work,  — work,  — 

Till  the  stars  shine  through  the  roof! 
It ’s  0 I to  be  a slave 

Along  with  the  barbarous  Turk, 
Where  woman  has  never  a soul  to  save. 
If  this  is  Christian  work  ! 

i.i  Work,  — work,  — work,  — 

Till  the  brain  begins  to  swim ; 

Work,  — work, — work,  — 

Till  the  eyes  are  heavy  and  dim. 


180 


SELECTIONS  IN  POETIIY. 


Seam,  and  gusset,  and  band, 

Band,  and  gusset,  and  seam. 

Till  over  the  buttons  I fall  asleep. 

And  sew  them  on  in  my  dream. 

“0,  men  with  sisters  dear  ! 

O,  men  with  mothers  and  wives . 

It  is  not  linen  you  ’re  wearing  out, 

But  human  creatures’  lives  ! 

Stitch,  — stitch  ^ — stitch,  — 

In  poverty^  hunger  and  dirt^ 

Sewing  at  once,  with  a double  tlirctul, 

A shroud  as  well  as  a shirt. 

“ But  why  do  I talk  of  Death, 

That  phantom  of  grisly  bone  ? 

I hardly  fear  his  terrible  shape. 

It  seems  so  like  my  own  I 

It  seems  so  like  my  own, 

Because  of  the  fasts  I keep. 

0 God  ! that  bread  should  be  so  dear, 

And  flesh  and  blood  so  cheap  ! 

“ Work,  — work.  — work,  — 

My  labor  never  flags  ; 

And  what  are  its  wages  ? A bed  of  straw, 
A crust  of  bread,  and  rags ; 

A shattered  roof,  and  this  naked  floor  ; 

A table,  a broken  chair  ; 

And  a wall  so  blank,  my  shadow  I thank 
For  sometimes  falling  there  ! 

“ Work,  — work,  — work,  — 

From  weary  chime  to  chime ; 


THE  SONG  OF  THE  SHIllT. 


181 


Work,  — work,  — work,  — 

As  prisoners  work,  for  crime  I 
Band,  and  gusset,  and  seam. 

Seam,  and  gusset,  and  band. 

Till  the  heart  is  sick,  and  the  brain  benumbed. 
As  well  as  the  weary  hand. 

“ Work,  — work,  — work,  — 

In  the  dull  December  night, 

And  work,  — work,  — work,  — 

When  the  weather  is  warm  and  bright ; 
While  underneath  the  eaves. 

The  brooding  swallows  cling, 

As  if  to  show  me  their  sunny  backs, 

And  twit  me  with  the  spring. 

“ 0 but  to  breathe  the  breath 

Of  the  cowslip  and  primrose  svreet, 

With  the  sky  above  my  head, 

And  the  grass  beneath  my  feet  I 
For  only  one  short  hour 
To  feel  as  I used  to  feel, 

, Before  I knew  the  woes  of  want, 

And  the  walk  that  costs  a meal ! 

0,  but  for  one  short  hour  ! 

A respite,  however  brief ! 

No  blessed  leisure  for  love  or  hope. 

But  only  time  for  grief! 

A little  weeping  would  ease  my  heart, — 

But  in  their  briny  bed 
My  tears  must  stop,  for  every  drop 
Hinders  needle  and  thread.” 


182 


SELECTIONS  IN  TOirTUV. 


With  fingers  weary  and  worn, 

With  eyelids  heavy  and  red, 

A woman  sat,  in  unwomanly  rugs, 

Plying  her  needle  and  thread. 

Stitch,  — stitch,  — stitch,  — 

In  poverty,  hunger  and  dirt ; 

And  still,  with  a voice  of  dolorous  pitch,  — 
Would  that  its  tones  could  reach  the  rich ! — 
She  sang  this  “ Song  of  the  Shirt.” 

HOOD. 


THE  HAPPY  MAN. 

He  is  the  happy  man  whose  life  even  now 
Shows  somewhat  of  that  happier  life  to  come ; 

Who,  doomed  to  an  obscure  but  tranquil  state. 

Is  pleased  with  it,  and,  were  he  free  to  choose. 

Would  make  his  fiite  his  choice ; whom  peace,  the  fruit 
Of  virtue,  and  whom  virtue,  fruit  of  faith. 

Prepare  .for  happiness ; bespeak  him  one 
Content,  indeed,  to  sojourn  where  he  must 
Below  the  skies,  but  having  there  his  home. 

The  world  o’erlooks  him  in  her  husy  search 
Of  objects  more  illustrious  in  her  view ; 

And,  occupied  as  earnestly  as  she. 

Though  more  sublimely,  he  o’erlooks  the  world. 

She  scorns  his  pleasures,  for  she  knows  them  not ; 

He  seeks  not  hers,  for  he  has  proved  them  vain. 

He  cannot  skim  the  ground  like  summer  birds 
Pursuing  gilded  flies ; and  such  he  deems 
Her  honors,  her  emoluments,  her  joys. 

Therefore  in  contemplation  is  his  bliss. 

Whose  power  is  such,  that  whom  she  lifts  from  earth 


FROM  THE  ARABIC. 


188 


She  makes  familiar  with  a heaven  unseen, 

And  shows  him  glories  yet  to  be  revealed. 

Not  slothful  he,  though  seeming  unemployed. 

And  censured  oft  as  useless.  Stillest  streams 
Oft  water  fairest  meadows,  and  the  bird 
That  flutters  least  is  longest  on  the  wing. 

Ask  him,  indeed,  what  trophies  he  has  raised, 

Or  what  achievements  of  immortal  fame 
He  purposes,  and  he  shall  answer,  — None. 

His  warfare  is  within.  There,  unfatigued. 

His  fervent  spirit  labors.  There  he  fights, 

And  there  obtains  fresh  triumphs  o’er  himself, 

And  never-withering  wreaths,  compared  with  which 
The  laurels  that  a Caesar  reaps  are  weeds. 

Perhaps  the  self-approving,  haughty  world, 

That,  as  she  sweeps  him  with  her  rustling  silks, 
Scarce  deigns  to  notice  him,  or,  if  she  see. 

Deems  him  a cipher  in  the  works  of  God, 

Receives  advantage  from  his  noiseless  hours 
Of  which  she  little  dreams.  Perhaps  she  owes 
Her  sunshine  and  her  rain,  her  blooming  spring 
And  plenteous  hai'vest,  to  the  prayer  he  makes. 
When,  Isaac-like,  the  solitary  saint 
Walks  forth  to  meditate  at  eventide. 

And  think  on  her  who  thinks  not  for  herself. 

COWI'KR. 


. FROM  THE  ARABIC. 

The  morn  that  ushered  thee  to  life,  my  child, 

Saw  thee  in  tears,  whilst  all  around  thee  smiled ; 
When  summoned  hence  to  thy  eternal  sleep, 

0,  mayst  thou  smile,  whilst  all  around  thee  weep ! 


184 


SELECTIONS  IN  POKTIIY. 


REMORSE. 

The  spirits  I have  raised  abandon  me,  — 

The  spells  which  I have  studied  baffle  me,  — 

The  remedy  I recked  of  tortured  me. 

I lean  no  more  on  superhuman  aid  ; 

It  hath  no  power  upon  the  past ; and  for 
The  future,  till  the  past  be  gulfed  in  darkness. 

It  is  not  of  my  search.  My  mother  earth  ! 

And  thou,  fresh-breaking  day,  and  you,  ye  moim tains. 
Why  are  ye  beautiful  ? I cannot  love  ye. 

And  thou,  the  bright  eye  of  the  universe. 

That  ope  nest  over  all,  and  unto  all 

Art  a delight,  — thou  shin’st  not  on  my  heart ! 

And  you,  ye  crags,  upon  whose  extreme  edge 
J stand,  and  on  the  torrent’s  brink  beneath 
Behold  the  tall  pines  dwindled  as  to  shrubs 
In  dizziness  of  distance,  — - when  a leap, 

A stir,  a motion,  even  a breath,  would  ])ring 
My  breast  upon  its  rooky  bosom’s  bed 
To  rest  forever,  wherefore  do  I pause  ? 

I feel  the  impulse,  yet  I do  not  plunge ; 

I see  the  peril,  yet  do  not  recede ; 

And  my  brain  reels,  and  yet  my  foot  is  firm  : 

There  is  a power  upon  me,  which  withholds, 

And  makes  it  my  fatality  to  live,  — 

If  it  be  life  to  wear  within  myself 
This  barrenness  of  spirit,  and  to  be  . 

My  own  soul’s  sepulchre ; for  I have  ceased 
To  justify  my  deeds  unto  myself,  — 

The  last  infirmity  of  evil.  Ay, 

Thou  winged  and  cloud-cleaving  minister, 


BIvESSINGS  UNOBSERVED, 


185 


Whose  happy  flight  is  highest  into  heaven, 

Well  may’st  thou  swoop  so  near  me ! — I should  he 
Thy  prey,  and  gorge  thine  eaglets.  Thou  art  gone 
Where  the  eye  cannot  follow  thee ; but  thine 
Yet  pierces  downward,  onward,  or  above. 

With  a pervading  vision.  Beautiful ! 

How  beautiful  is  all  this  visible  world  ! 

How  glorious  in  its  action  and  itself! 

But  we,  who  name  ourselves  its  sovereigns,  we, 
Half  dust,  half  deity,  alike  unfit 
To  sink  or  soar,  with  our  mixed  essence  make 
A conflict  of  its  elements,  and  breathe 
The  breath  of  degradation  and  of  pride. 

Contending  with  low  wants  and  lofty  will. 

Till  our  mortality  predominates, 

And  men  are  what  they  name  not  to  themselves, 
And  trust  not  to  each  other, 

BYRON. 


BLESSINGS  UNOBSERVED. 

A man’s  best  things  are  nearest  him. 

Lie  close  about  his  feet ; 

It  is  the  distant  and  the  dim 
That  we  are  sick  to  greet. 

For  flowers  that  grow  our  hands  beneath 
We  struggle  and  aspire ; 

Our  hearts  must  die,  except  they  breathe 
The  air  of  fresh  Desire. 

Yet,  brothers,  who  up  Reason’s  hill 
Advance  with  hopeful  cheer,  — 


18G 


SELECTIONS  IN  POETRY. 


0,  loiter  not ! those  heights  are  chill,  — 
As  chill  as  they  are  clear ; 

And  still  restrain  your  haughty  gaze, 
The  loftier  that  ye  go. 

Remembering  distance  leaves  a haze 
On  all  that  lies  below. 


OF  A CONTENTED  MIND. 

When  all  is  done  and  said. 

In  the  end  thus  shall  you  find  : 

He  most  of  all  doth  bathe  in  bliss. 

That  hath  a quiet  mind ; 

And,  clear  from  worldly  cares, 

To  deem  can  be  content 
The  sweetest  time  in  all  his  life 
In  thinking  to  be  spent. 

The  body  subject  is 

To  fickle  Fortune’s  power, 

And  to  a million  of  mishaps 
Is  casual  every  hour  ; 

And  death  in  time  doth  chancre 

O 

It  to  a clod  of  clay  ; 

Whereas  the  mind,  which  is  divine, 

Runs  never  to  decay. 

Companion  none  is  like 
Unto  the  mind  alone  ; 

For  many  have  been  harmed  by  speech,  — 
Through  thinking,  few  or  none. 

Fear  oftentimes  restraineth  words, 

But  makes  not  thoughts  to  cease ; 


A WET  SHEET  AND  A FLOWING  SEA. 


187 


And  he  speaks  best  that  hath  the  skill 
When  for  to  hold  his  peace. 

Our  wealth  leaves  us  at  death ; 

Our  kinsmen  at  the  grave ; 

But  virtues  of  the  mind  unto 
The  heavens  with  us  we  have. 
Wherefore,  for  virtue’s  sake, 

I can  be  well  content 
The  sweetest  time  of  all  my  life 
To  deem  in  thinking  spent. 


A WET  SHEET  AIS'D  A FLOWING  SEA. 

A WET  sheet  and  a flowing  sea, 

A wind  that  follows  flist. 

And  fills  the  white  and  rustling  sail. 

And  bends  the  gallant  mast ; 

And  bends  the  gallant  mast,  my  boys, 
While,  like  the  eagle  free. 

Away  the  good  ship  flies,  and  leaves 
Old  England  on  the  lee. 

“ 0,  for  a soft  and  gentle  wind ! ” 

I heard  a fair  one  cry ; 

But  give  to  me  the  swelling  breeze, 

And  white  waves  heaving  high ; 

And  white  waves  heaving  high,  my  boys. 
The  good  ship  tight  and  free,  — 

The  world  of  waters  is  our  home. 

And  merry  men  are  we. 


SELECTIONS  IN  POETRY. 


There ’s  tempest  in  yon  horned  moon, 

And  lightning  in  yon  cloud ; 

And  hark,  the  music,  mariners ! 

The  wind  is  piping  loud  ; 

The  wind  is  piping  loud,  my  boys. 

The  lightning  flashes  free, 

While  the  hollow  oak  our  palace  is, 

Our  heritage  the  sea. 

CUNNINGHAM. 


TJIE  ELOQUENT  PASTOll. 

He  taught  the  cheerfulness  that  still  is  ours. 

The  sweetness  that  still  lurks  in  human  powers ; — 
If  heaven  be  full  of  stars,  the  earth  has  flowers ! 

His  was  the  searching  thought,  the  glowing  mind ; 
The  gentle  will  to  others’  soon  resigned ; 

But,  more  than  all,  the  feeling  just  and  kind. 

His  pleasures  were  as  melodies  from  reeds,  — 
Sweet  books,  deep  music  and  unselfish  deeds, 
Finding  immortal  flowers  in  human  weeds. 

True  to  his  kind,  nor  of  himself  afraid. 

He  deemed  that  love  of  God  was  best  arrayed 
In  love  of  all  the  things  that  God  has  made. 

He  deemed  man’s  life  no  feverish  dream  of  care. 
But  a high  pathw^ay  into  freer  air, 

Lit  up  with  golden  hopes  and  duties  fair. 

He  showed  how  wisdom  turns  its  hours  to  years. 
Feeding  the  heart  on  joys  instead  of  fears, 

And  worships  God  in  smiles,  and  not  in  tears. 


THE  IIOLLY-TREE. 


189 


His  thoughts  were  as  a pyramid  up-piled, 

On  whose  far  top  an  angel  stood  and  smiled,  — 
Yet  in  his  heart  was  he  a simple  child. 

LAMAN  BLANCHARD. 


THE  HOLLY-TREE. 

0 READER ! hast  thou  ever  stood  to  see 

The  Holly-tree  ? 

The  eye  that  contemplates  it  well,  perceives 
Its  glossy  leaves 

Ordered  by  an  Intelligence  so  wise. 

As  might  confound  the  atheist’s  sophistries. 

BeloWj  a circling  fence,  its  leaves  are  seen 
Wrinkled  and  keen ; 

No  grazing  cattle  through  their  prickly  round 
Can  reach  to  wound ; 

But,  as  they  grow  where  nothing  is  to  fear. 
Smooth  and  unarmed  the  pointless  leaves  appear. 

1 love  to  view  these  things  with  curious  eyes. 

And  moralize : 

And  in  this  wisdom  of  the  Holly-tree 
Can  emblems  see 

Wherewith,  perchance,  to  make  a pleasant  rhyme. 
One  which  may  profit  in  the  after-time. 

Thus,  though  abroad  perchance  I might  appear 
Harsh  and  austere. 

To  those  who  on  my  leisure  would  intrude 
Beserved  and  rude. 

Gentle  at  home  amid  my  friends  I ’d  be. 

Like  the  high  leaves  upon  the  Holly-tree. 


190 


SELECTIONS  IN  POETllY. 


And  should  my  youth,  as  youth  is  apt,  I know, 
Some  harshness  show, 

All  vain  asperities  I day  by  day 
Would  wear  away. 

Till  the  smooth  temper  of  my  age  should  be 
Like  the  high  leaves  upon  the  Holly-tree. 

And  as,  when  all  the  summer  trees  are  seen 
So  bright  and  green, 

The  Holly-leaves  a sober  hue  display 
Less  bright  than  they ; 

But,  when  the  bare  and  wintry  woods  we  see. 
What  then  so  cheerful  as  the  Holly-tree  ? -r- 

So  serious  should  my  youth  appear  among 
The  thoughtless  throng ; 

So  would  I seem  amid  the  young  and  gay 
More  grave  than  they, 

That  in  my  age  as  cheerful  I might  be 
As  the  green  winter  of  the  Holly-tree. 

SOUTHEY. 

LIFT  UP  THINE  EYES,  AFFLICTEI)  SOUL. 

Lift  up  thine  eyes,  afflicted  soul ! 

From  earth  lift  up  thine  eyes. 

Though  dark  the  evening  shadows  roll, 

And  daylight  beauty  dies ; 

One  sun  is  set,  — a thousand  more 
Their  rounds  ef  glory  run. 

Where  Science  leads  thee  to  explore 
In  every  star  a sun. 

Thus,  when  some  long-loved  comfort  ends, 
And  nature  would  despair, 


SPIRIT  OP  DELIGHT. 


191 


Faith  to  the  heaven  of  heaven  ascends, 

And  meets  ten  thousand  there ; 

First  faint  and  small,  then  clear  and  bright. 
They  gladden  all  the  gloom, 

And  stars,  that  seem  but  points  of  light, 

The  rank  of  suns  assume, 

MONTGOMERY. 


SPIRIT  OF  DELIGHT. 

Harely,  rarely,  comest  thou, 

Spirit  of  delight ! 

Wherefore  hast  thou  left  me  now 
Many  a day  and  night  ? 

Many  a weary  night  and  day 

’T  is  since  thou  art  fled  away. 

How  shall  ever  one  like  me 
Win  thee  back  again  ? 

With  the  joyous  and  the  free 
Thou  wilt  scoff  at  pain. 

Spirit  false  ! thou  hast  forgot 

All  but  those  who  need  thee  not. 

As  a lizard  with  the  shade 
Of  a trembling  leaf. 

Thou  with  sorrow  art  dismayed ; 

Even  the  sighs  of  grief 

Keproach  thee,  that  thou  art  not  near ; 

And  reproach  thou  wilt  not  hear. 

Let  me  set  ray  mournful  ditty 
To  a merry  measure. 


102 


SELECTIONS  IN  POETrY. 


Thou  wilt  never  come  foT  pity, 

Thou  Avilt  come  for  plea/^ure ; 

Pity  then  will  cut  away 

Those  cruel  wingsj  and  thou  Avilt  stay. 

I love  all  that  thou  lovest, 

Spirit  of  delight ! 

The  fresh  earth  in  new  leaves  dressed, 

And  the  starry  night ; 

Autumn  evening,  and  the  morn. 

When  the  golden  mists  are  born. 

I love  snoAV,  and  all  the  forms 
Of  the  radiant  frost ; 

I love  Avaves,  and  Avinds,  and  storms. 
Everything  almost 
Which  is  Nature’s,  and  may  be 
Untainted  by  man’s  misery. 

I love  tranquil  solitude. 

And  such  society 
As  is  quiet,  wise,  and  good ; 

Between  thee  and  me 
What  difference  ! but  thou  dost  possess 
The  things  I seek  — not  love  them  less. 

I love  Love,  though  h.e  has  wings. 

And  like  light  can  flee ; 

But,  above  all  other  things. 

Spirit,  I love  thee ; — 

Thou  art  love  and  life ; 0 come. 

Make  once  more  my  heart  thy  home ! 

SHELLKY. 


TO  A CHILD. 


193 


TO  A CHILD  SIX  YEARS  OLD,  DURING  SICKNESS. 

Sleep  breathes  at  last  from  out  thee, 

Mj  little  patient  boy ; 

And  balmy  rest  about  thee 
Smooths  off  the  day’s  annoy. 

I sit  me  down  and  think 
Of  all  thy  winning  ways ; 

Yet  almost  wish,  with  sudden  shrink, 

That  I had  less  to  praise. 

Thy  sidelong-pillowed  meekness, 

Thy  thanks  to  all  that  aid, 

Thy  heart,  in  pain  and  weakness. 

Of  fancied  faults  afraid,  — 

The  little  trembling  hand 
That  wipes  thy  quiet  tears,  — 

These,  these  are  things  that  may  demand 
Dread  memories  for  years. 

Sorrows  I ’ve  had,  severe  ones, 

I will  not  think  of  now ; 

And  calmly  midst  my  dear  ones. 

Have  wasted  with  dry  brow ; 

But  when  thy  fingers  press 
And  pat  my  stooping  head, 

I cannot  bear  the  gentleness,  — 

The  tears  are  in  thSir  bed. 

Ah ! first-born  of  thy  mother. 

When  life  and  hope  were  new. 

Kind  playmate  of  thy  brother. 

Thy  sister,  father  too ; 

9 


M 


101 


SELECTIONS  IN  POETRY. 


IMy  light  where’er  I go, 

My  bird  when  prison-bound, 

My  hand-in-hand  companion,  — no, 

My  prayers  shall  hold  thee  round  ! 

To  say,  “ He  has  departed  ; 

His  voice,  his  face,  is  gone ; ” 

To  feel  impatient-hearted. 

Yet  feel  we  must  bear  on  ; 

Ah  ! I could  not  endure 
To  whisper  of  such  woe. 

Unless  I felt  this  sleep  insure 
That  it  will  not  be  so. 

Yes,  still  he ’s  fixed,  and  sleeping ! 

This  silence,  too,  the  while,  — 

Its  very  hush  and  creeping 

Seem  whispering  us  a smile ; — 
Something  divine  and  dim 
Seems  going  by  one’s  ear, 

Like  parting  wings  of  cherubim. 

Who  say,  “ We ’ve  finished  here.” 

LEIGH  HUNT. 


WHERE  IS  THE  SEA? 

SONG  OF  THE  GREEK  ISLANDER  IN  EXILE. 

A Greek  Islander,  being  taken  to  the  Vale  of  Tempe,  and  called  upon  to  admire 
its  beauty,  only  replied,  “ The  sea^  — where  is  it  .2  ” 

Where  is  the  sea  ? I languish  here,  — 

Where  is  my  own  blue  sea. 

With  all  its  barks  in  fleet  career. 

And  flags  and  breezes  fi*ee  ? 


THE  CHRISTIAN  VIRGIN  TO  HER  APOSTATE  LOVER.  195 

I miss  that  voice  of  waves,  which  first 
Awoke  my  childish  glee  ; 

The  measured  chime,  the  thundering  burst,  — 
Where  is  my  own  blue  sea  ? 

0 ! rich  your  myrtle’s  breath  may  rise 
Soft,  soft  your  winds  may  be ; 

Yet  my  sick  heart  within  me  dies,  — 

Where  is  my  own  blue  sea  ? 

1 hear  the  shepherd’s  mountain  flute, 

I hear  the  whispering  tree ; 

The  echoes  of  my  soul  are  mute,  — 

Where  is  my  own  blue  sea  ? 

MRS.  HEMANS. 


THE  CHRISTIAN  VIRGIN  TO  HER  APOSTATE  LOVER. 

0,  LOST  to  faith,  to  peace,  to  heaven ! 

Canst  thou  a recreant  be 
To  Him  whose  life  for  thine  was  given. 

Whose  cross  endured  for  thee  ? 

Canst  thou  for  earthly  joys  resign 
A love  immortal,  pure,  divine. 

Yet  link  thy  plighted  truth  to  mine, 

And  cleave  unchanged  to  me? 

Thou  canst  not;  and  ’tis  breathed  in  vain, 

Thy  sophistry  of  love ! — 

Though  not  in  pride,  or  cold  disdain. 

Thy  falsehood  I reprove ; 

Inly  my  heart  may  bleed,  but  yet 
Mine  is  no  weak,  no  vain  regret ; 

Thy  wrongs  to  me  I might  forget, 

But  not  to  Him  above. 


196 


SELECTIONS  IN  POETRY. 


Cease,  then,  thy  fond,  impassioned  vow, 

In  happier  hours  so  dear ; 

(No  virgin  pride  restrains  me  now) 

I must  not  turn  to  hear ; 

For  still  my  erring  heart  might  prove 

Too  weak  to  spurn  thy  proffered  love ; 

And  tears,  though  feigned  and  false,  might  move, 
And  prayers,  though  insincere. 

But  no  ! the  tie  so  firmly  bound 
Is  torn  asunder  now  ; 

How  deep  that  sudden  wrench  may  wound. 

It  recks  not  to  avow  ; 

Go  thou  to  fortune  and  to  fame,  — 

I sink  to  sorrow,  suffering,  shame ; 

Yet  think,  when  glory  gilds  thy  name, 

I would  not  be  as  thou  ! 

Thou  canst  not  light  or  wavering  deem 
The  bosom  all  thine  own ; 

Thou  know’st,  in  joy’s  enlivening  beam, 

Or  fortune’s  adverse  frown, 

My  pride,  my  bliss,  had  been  to  share 

Thine  hopes  ; to  soothe  thine  hours  of  care ; 

With  thee  the  martyr’s  cross  to  bear, 

Or  win  the  martyr’s  crOwn. 

’T  is  o’er ; but  never  from  my  heart 
Shall  time  thine  image  blot ; 

The  dreams  of  other  days  depart,  — 

Thou  shalt  not  be  forgot  ; 

And  never,  in  the  suppliant  sigh 

Poured  forth  to  Him  who  rules  the  sky. 

Shall  mine  own  name  be  breathed  on  high. 

And  thine  remembered  not. 


SUMMER  EVENING  BY  THE  SEA. 


197 


Farewell ! and  0,  may  he  whose  love 
Endures,  though  man  rebel, 

In  mercy  yet  thy  guilt  reprove, 

Thy  darkening  clouds  dispel ! 
Where’er  thy  wandering  steps  decline, 

My  fondest  prayers,  nor  only  mine,  — 

The  aid  of  Israel’s  God  be  thine  ; 

And,  in  his  name,  farewell ! 

REV.  T.  DALE. 


SUMMER  EVENING  BY  THE  SEA. 

Amid  the  west,  the  light  decaying. 

Like  Joy,  looks  loveliest  ere  it  dies ; 

On  Ocean’s  breast,  the  small  waves  playing. 
Catch  the  last  lustre  as  they  rise. 

Scarce  the  blue-curling  tide  displaces 
One  pebble  in  its  gentle  ebb ; 

Scarce  on  the  smooth  sand  leaves  its  traces, 
In  meshes  fine  as  fairy’s  web. 

From  many  a stone  the  sea-weed  streaming 
Now  floats,  now  falls,  the  waves  between, 

Its  yellow  berries  brighter  seeming 
Amid  the  wreaths  of  dusky  green. 

This  is  the  hour  the  loved  are  dearest. 

This  is  the  hour  the  severed  meet ; 

The  dead,  the  distant,  now  are  nearest, 

And  joy  is  soft,  and  sorrow  sweet. 

REV.  C.  H.  TOWNSHEND. 


198 


SELECTIONS  IN  POETRY. 


ON  THE  DEATH  OF  AN  INFANT. 

With  what  unknown  delight  the  mother  smiled, 

When  this  frail  treasure  in  her  arms  she  pressed ! 
Her  prayer  was  heard,  — she  clasped  a living  child,  — 
But  how  the  gift  transcends  the  poor  request ! 

A child  was  all  she  asked,  with  many  a vow ; 

Mother,  behold  the  child  an  angel  now ! 

Now  in  her  Father’s  house  she  finds  a place ; 

Or,  if  to  earth  she  take  a transient  flight, 

’T  is  to  fulfil  the  purpose  of  Ilis  grace. 

To  guide  thy  footsteps  to  the  world  of  light ; — 

A ministering  spirit  sent  to  thee. 

That  where  she  is,  there  thou  mayst  also  be. 

JANE  TAYLOR. 


SONNET. 

When  last  we  parted  thou  wert  young  and  fair ; 

How  beautiful,  let  fond  remembrance  say ! 

Alas  ! since  then  old  Time  has  stolen  away 
Full  thirty  years,  leaving  my  temples  bare. 

So  hath  it  perished  like  a thing  of  air. 

The  dream  of  love  and  youth ! — Now  both  are  gray. 
Yet  still  remembering  that  delightful  day. 

Though  Time  with  his  cold  touch  hath  blanched  my  hair. 
Though  I have  suffered  many  years  of  pain 
Since  then ; though  I did  never  think  to  live 
To  hear  that  voice  or  see  those  eyes  again, 

I can  a sad  but  cordial  greeting  give. 

And  for  thy  welfare  breathe  as  warm  a prayer. 

Lady,  as  when  I loved  thee,  young  and  fair  ! 

REV.  W.  L.  BOWLES. 


BIBLE. 


199 


BIBLE. 


Bible  ! — Blessed  Bible  ! 

Treasure  of  the  heart ! 

What  sweet  consolation 
Doth  thy  page  impart ! 

In  the  fiercest  trial, 

In  the  deepest  grief, 

Strength,  and  hope,  and  comfort. 
In  each  holy  leaf. 

Bible,  — let  me  clasp  thee, 
Anchor  of  the  soul ! 

When  the  storm  is  raging. 

When  the  waters  roll, 


200 


SELECTIONS  IN  POETRY. 


When  the  frowning  heavens 
Darken  every  star, 

And  no  hopeful  beacon 
Glimmereth  afar, 

Be  my  refuge,  Bible  ! 

Then  be  thou  my  stay. 
Guide  me  on  life’s  billow. 
Light  the  dreary  way ; 
Tell  me  of  the  morrow. 
When  a sun  shall  rise. 
That  shall  glow  forever. 

In  unclouded  skies  ; 

Tell  me  of  that  heaven 
In  the  climes  above. 
Where  the  bark  rides  safely 
In  a sea  of  love  ! 


Bible ! — let  me  clasp  thee  ! 

Chronicle  divine 
Of  a world’s  redemption, 

Of  a Saviour,  mine ! 
Wisdom  for  the  simple, 
niches  for  the  poor, 

Hope  for  the  desponding. 

For  the  sick  a cure. 

Best  for  all  the  weary, 
Bansom  for  the  slave. 
Courage  for  the  fearful. 

Life  beyond  the  grave ! 
Bible ! — blessed  Bible  ! 

Treasure  of  the  heart. 
What  sweet  consolation 
Doth  thy  page  impart ; — 


LILY  OF  THE  VALLEY.  — FORGIVENESS. 


201 


In  the  fiercest  trial, 

In  the  deepest  grief, 

Strength,  and  hope,  and  comfort. 

In  each  holy  leaf. 

REV.  R.  HOYT. 


THE  LILY  OF  THE  VALLEY. 

White  bud  ! that  in  meek  beauty  so  dost  lean. 

The  cloistered  cheek  as  pale  as  moonlight  snow. 
Thou  seem’st,  beneath  thy  huge,  high  leaf  of  green, 
An  Eremite  beneath  his  mountain’s  brow. 

White  bud  ! thou  ’rt  emblem  of  a lovelier  thing,  — 
The  broken  spirit,  that  its  anguish  bears 
To  silent  shades,  and  there  sits  offering 
To  Heaven  the  holy  fragrance  of  its  tears. 

REV.  G.  CROLY. 


FOEGIVENESS. 

When  on  the  fragrant  sandal-tree 
The  woodman’s  axe  descends. 

And  she  who  bloomed  so  beauteously 
Beneath  the  keen  stroke  bends. 

E’en  on  the  edge  that  brought  her  death, 
Hying,  she  breathes  her  sweetest  breath. 
As  if  to  token  in  her  fall 
“ Peace  to  her  foes,  and  love  to  all ! ” 
How  hardly  man  this  lesson  learns. 

To  smile,  and  bless  the  hand  that  spurns ; 
To  see  the  blow,  and  feel  the  pain. 

But  render  only  love  again  ! 

9=^ 


202 


SELECTIONS  IN  POETKY. 


This  Spirit  ne’er  was  given  on  earth  ; 

One  had  it,  — He  of  heavenly  birth  ; 
licviled,  rejected  and  betrayed, 

No  curse  He  breathed,  no  plaint  he  made. 
But,  when  in  death’s  deep  pang  He  sighed. 
Prayed  for  his  murderers  — and  died. 


SOLITUDE. 

Are  not  these  woods 

IMore  free  from  peril  than  the  envious  court  ? 

Here  feel  we  but  the  penalty  of  Adam, 

The  season’s  difference ; as  the  icy  fang. 

And  churlish  chiding  of  the  winter’s  wind  ; 

Which,  when  it  bites  and  blows  upon  my  body. 

Even  till  I shrink  with  cold,  I smile  and  say, 

This  is  no  flattery : ’these  are  counsellors 
That  feelingly  persuade  me  what  I am. 

Sweet  are  the  uses  of  adversity ; 

Which,  like  the  toad,  ugly  and  venomous. 

Wears  yet  a precious  jewel  in  his  head ; 

And  this  our  life,  exempt  from  public  haunt. 

Finds  tongues  in  trees,  books  in  the  running  brooks, 
Sermons  in  stones,  and  good  in  everything. 

SHAKSPEARE. 


THE  EVENING  CLOUD. 

A CLOUD  lay  cradled  near  the  setting  sun, — 

A gleam  of  crimson  tinged  its  braided  snow  : 
Long  had  I watched  the  glory  moving  on. 

O’er  the  still  radiance  of  the  lake  below; 


THE  THUNDER-STORM. 


203 


Tranquil  its  spirit  seemed,  and  floated  slow ; 

E’en  in  its  very  motion  there  was  rest, 

While  every  breath  of  eve  that  chanced  to  blow 
Wafted  the  traveller  to  the  beauteous  west. 
Emblem,  methought,  of  the  departed  soul. 

To  whose  white  robe  the  gleam  of  bliss  is  given, 
And  by  the  breath  of  mercy  made  to  roll 

Right  onward  to  the  golden  gates  of  heaven  : 
Where  to  the  eye  of  faith  it  peaceful  lies, 

And  tells  to  man  his  glorious  destinies. 

WILSON. 


THE  THUNDER-STOEM. 

See  ye  the  signals  of  his  march  ? — the  flash 
Wide  streaming  round  ? — the  thunder  of  his  voice 
Hear  ye  ? — Jehovah’s  thunder  ? — the  dread  peal 
Hear  ye,  that  rends  the  concave  ? 

Lord  ! God  supreme ! 

Compassionate  and  kind ! 

Praised  be  thy  glorious  name ! 

Praised  and  adored ! 

How  sweeps  the  whirlwind ! — leader  of  the  storm  ! 
How  screams  discordant,  and  with  headlong  waves 
Lashes  the  forest ! — All  is  now  repose. 

Slow  sail  the  dark  clouds  — slow. 

Again  new  signals  press ! — enkindled,  broad, 

See  ye  the  lightning  ? — hear  ye,  from  the  clouds. 
The  thunders  of  the  Lord  ? — J ehovah  calls  ; 
Jehovah ! — and  the  smitten  forest  smokes, 


204 


SELECTIONS  IN  POETRY. 


But  not  our  cot ; 

Our  heavenly  Father  bade 
The  o’erwhelming  power 
Pass  o’er  our  cot,  and  spare  it. 

KLOPSTOCK. 


A LESSON  FOR  FUTURE  LIFE. 

Every  present  holds  a future  in  it, 

Could  we  read  its  bosom  secret  right, 

Could  we  see  the  golden  clue  and  win  it. 

Lay  our  hand  to  work  with  heart  and  might. 

True  it  is  we  shall  not  live  in  story. 

But  we  may  be  waves  within  a tide, 

Help  the  human  flood  to  near  the  glory 

That  shall  shine  when  we  have  toiled  and  died. 

Therefore,  though  few  praise,  or  help,  or  heed  us, 
Let  us  work,  with  head,  or  heart,  or  hand ; 

For  we  know  the  future  ages  need  us. 

We  must  help  our  time  to  take  its  stand ; — 

That  the  after  day  may  make  beginning 
Where  our  present  labor  hath  its  end ; 

So  each  age,  by  that  before  it  winning. 

To  the  following  help  in  turn  shall  lend. 

Each  single  struggle  hath  its  far  vibration, 

Working  results  that  work  results  again ; 

Failure  and  death  are  no  annihilation. 

Our  tears,  absorbed,  will  make  some  future  rain. 

Let  us  toil  on ; the  work  we  leave  behind  us. 
Though  incomplete,  God’s  hand  will  yet  embalm, 


THE  WORTH  OF  WOMAN. 


205 


And  use  it  some  way : and  the  news  will  find  us 
In  heaven  above,  and  sweeten  endless  calm. 


THE  WORTH  OF  WOMAN. 

Honored  be  Woman ! she  beams  on  the  sight. 
Graceful  and  fair  as  a being  of  light ; 

Scatters  around  her,  wherever  she  strays, 

Roses  of  bliss  on  our  thorn-covered  ways ; 

Roses  of  paradise,  sent  from  above. 

To  be  gathered  and  twined  in  a garland  of  love. 

Man,  on  Passion’s  stormy  ocean. 

Tossed  by  surges  mountain  high, 

Courts  the  hurricane’s  commotion, 

Spurns  at  Reason’s  feeble  cry. 

Loud  the  tempest  roars  around  him, 
Louder  still  it  roars  within ; 

Flashing  lights  of  Hope  confound  him, 
Stuns  him  life’s  incessant  din. 

Woman  invites  him,  with  bliss  in  her  smile, 

To  cease  from  his  toil  and  be  happy  a while ; 
Whispering  wooingly,  “ Come  to  my  bower ; 

Go  not  in  search  of  the  phantom  of  power. 
Honor  and  wealth  are  illusory,  — come  ! 
Happiness  dwells  in  the  temple  of  home.” 

Man,  with  fury  stern  and  savage, 
Persecutes  his  brother-man ; 

Reckless  if  he  bless  or  ravage, 

Action,  action,  still  his  plan. 

Now  creating,  now  destroying. 

Ceaseless  wishes  tear  his  breast. 


20G 


SELECTIONS  IN  POETRY. 


Ever  seeking,  ne’er  enjoying; 

Still  to  be,  but  never  blest. 

Woman,  contented,  in  silent  repose. 

Enjoys  in  its  beauty  life’s  flower  as  it  blows. 

And  waters  and  tends  it  with  innocent  heart. 

Far  richer  than  man  with  his  treasures  of  art ; 

And  wiser  by  far,  in  her  circle  confined. 

Than  he  with  his  science  and  lights  of  the  mind. 

Coldly  to  himself  sufficing, 

Man  disdains  the  gentler  arts, 

Knoweth  not  the  bliss  arising 
From  the  interchange  of  hearts. 

Slowly  through  his  bosom  stealing. 

Flows  the  genial  current  on. 

Till,  by  age’s  frost  congealing. 

It  is  hardened  into  stone. 

She,  like  the  harp  that  instinctively  rings. 

As  the  night-breathing  zephyr  soft  sighs  on  the  strings, 
Responds  to  each  impulse  with  steady  reply. 

Whether  sorrow  or  pleasure  her  sympathy  try ; 

And  tear-drops  and  smiles  on  her  countenance  play. 
Like  the  sunshine  and  showers  of  a morning  in  May. 

Through  the  range  of  Man’s  dominion, 

Terrror  is  the  ruling  word ; 

And  the  standard  of  opinion 
Is  the  temple  or  the  sword. 

Strife  exults,  and  Pity,  blushing. 

From  the  scene  departing  flies. 

Where,  to  battle  madly  rushing, 

I*rother  upon  brother  dies. 


ODE  TO  A GOLD  COIN. 


207 


Woman  commands  with  a milder  control ; 

She  rules  by  enchantment  the  realm  of  the  soul ; 
As  she  glances  around,  in  the  light  of  her  smile 
The  war  of  the  passions  is  hushed  for  a while  ; 
And  Discord,  content  from  his  fury  to  cease. 
Reposes,  entranced,  in  the  sunlight  of  Peace. 

SCHILLER. 


ODE  TO  A GOLD  COIN. 

The  following  “ Ode  to  an  Indian  Gold  Coin  ” was  written  in  Cherical,  Mala- 
bar, by  Dr.  John  Leyden,  a native  of  Scotland,  who  went,  in  1803,  to  reside  in 
India,  in  the  view  of  accumulating  a fortune.  His  worldly  prospects  were  term- 
inated by  his  death,  which  took  place  at  Java,  in  1811,  three  weeks  after  he 
had  landed  there  with  the  British  troops. 

Slave  of  the  dark  and  dirty  mine ! 

What  vanity  has  brought  thee  here  ? 

How  can  I love  to  see  thee  shine 

So  bright  whom  I have  bought  so  dear  ? — 

The  tent-ropes  flapping  lone  I hear 
For  twilight-converse,  arm  in  arm ; 

The  jackal’s  shriek  bursts  on  mine  ear 
When  mirth  and  music  wont  to  cheer. 

By  Cherical’s  dark  wandering  streams. 

Where  cane-tufts  shadow  all  the  wild. 

Sweet  visions  haunt  my  waking  dreams 
Of  Teviot  loved  while  still  a child. 

Of  castled  rocks  stupendous  piled 
By  Esk  or  Eden’s  classic  wave. 

Where  loves  of  youth  and  friendships  smiled. 
Uncursed  by  thee,  vile  yellow  slave ! 

Fade,  day-dreams  sweet,  from  memory  fade! 

The  perished  bliss  of  youth’s  first  prime. 


208 


SELECTIONS  IN  POETRY. 


That  once  so  bright  on  Fancy  played, 

Ilevives  no  more  in  after-time. 

Far  from  my  sacred  natal  clime, 

I haste  to  an  untimely  grave ; 

The  daring  thoughts  that  soared  sublime 
Are  sunk  in  ocean’s  southern  wave. 

Slave  of  the  mine  ! thy  yellow  light 
Gleams  baleful  as  the  tomb-fire  drear ; 

A gentle  vision  comes  by  night 
]My  lonely  widowed  heart  to  cheer : 

Her  eyes  are  dim  with  many  a tear. 

That  once  were  guiding  stars  to  mine ; 

Her  fond  heart  throbs  with  many  a fear  ! — 
I cannot  bear  to  see  thee  shine  ! 

For  thee,  for  thee,  vile  yellow  slave, 

I left  a heart  that  loved  me  true  ! 

I crossed  the  tedious  ocean-wave, 

To  roam  in  climes  unkind  and  new. 

The  cold  wind  of  the  stranger  blew 
Chill  on  my  withered  heart : the  grave 
Dark  and  untimely  met  my  view,  — 

And  all  for  thee,  vile  yellow  slave ! 

Ha ! com’st  thou  now  so  late  to  mock 
A wanderer’s  banished  heart  forlorn, 

Now  that  his  frame  the  lightning  shock 
Of  sun-rays  tipt  with  death  has  borne  ? 
From  love,  from  friendship,  country,  torn, 
To  memory’s  fond  regrets  the  prey. 

Vile  slave,  thy  yellow  dross  I scorn ! — 

Go,  mix  thee  with  thy  kindred  clay! 


THE  TRUE  REFUGE.  — TO  FORTUNE. 


209 


THE  TRUE  REFUGE. 

Forth  from  the  dark  and  stormy  sky, 

Lord,  to  thine  altar’s  shade  we  fly ; 

Forth  from  the  world,  its  hope  and  fear. 
Saviour,  we  seek  thy  shelter  here  ; 

Weary  and  weak,  thy  grace  we  pray ; 

Turn  not,  0 Lord,  thy  guests  away  ! 

Long  have  we  roamed  in  want  and  pain, 

Long  have  we  sought  thy  rest  in  vain ; 
’Wildered  in  doubt,  in  darkness  lost. 

Long  have  our  souls  been  tempest-test : 

Low  at  thy  feet  our  sins  we  lay ; 

Turn  not,  0 Lord,  thy  guests  away  ! 

* HEBER. 


TO  FORTUNE. 

The  mists  in  which  future  events  are  wrapped, 
That  oft  succeed  beside  the  purposes 
Of  him  that  works,  — his  dull  eyes  not  discerning 
The  first  great  Cause,  — oflered  thy  clouded  shape 
To  his  inquiring  search ; so  in  the  dark 
The  groping  world  first  found  thy  deity, 

And  gave  thee  rule  over  contingencies. 

Which,  to  the  piercing  eye  of  Providence, 

Are  fixed  and  certain : where  past  and  to  come 
Are  always  present,  thou  dost  disappear, 

Losest  thy  being,  and  art  not  at  all. 

Be  thou,  then,  only  a deluding  phantonj. 

At  best  a blind  guide,  leading  blinder  fools ; 

Who,  would  they  but  survey  their  mutual  wants, 
And  help  each  other,  there  were  left  no  room 


N 


10 


SELECTIONS  IN  POETRY. 


For  thy  vain  aid.  Wisdom,  whose  strong-built  plots 
Leave  naught  to  hazard,  mocks  thy  futile  power. 
Industrious  Labor  drags  thee  by  the  locks, 

Bound  to  his  toiling  car,  and  not  attending 
Till  thou  dispense,  reaches  his  own  reward. 

Only  the  lazy  sluggish  yawning  lies 
Before  thy  threshold,  gaping  for  thy  dole. 

And  licks  the  easy  hand  that  feeds  his  sloth. 

THOMAS  CAREW. 


mAGARX, 

The  thoughts  are  strange  that  crowd  into  my  brain, 
While  I look  upward  to  thee ! It  would  seem 
As  if  God  poured  thee  from  his  hollow  hand. 

And  hung  his  bow  upon  thine  awful  front, 

And  spoke  in  that  loud  voice,  which  seemed  to  him 
Who  dwelt  in  Patmos  for  his  Saviour’s  sake 
“ The  sound  of  many  waters,”  and  had  bade 
Thy  flood  to  chronicle  the  ages  back. 

And  notch  His  centuries  in  the  eternal  rocks. 

Beep  calleth  unto  deep,  — and  what  are  we 
That  hear  the  question  of  that  voice  sublime  ; 

0,  what  are  all  the  notes  that  ever  rung 

From  war’s  vain  trumpet,  by  thy  thundering  side  ? 

Yea,  what  is  all  the  riot  man  can  make. 

In  his  short  life,  to  thine  unceasing  roar  ? 

And  yet,  bold  babbler,  what  art  thou  to  Him 
Who  drowned  the  world,  and  heaped  the  waters  far 
Above  its  loftiest  mountains  ? — A light  wave. 

That  breaks  and  whispers  of  his  Maker’s  might ! 


ERAINARD. 


EPITAPH  ON  MRS.  MASON. INDEPENDENCE.  211 

EPITAPH  ON  MRS.  MASON, 

IN  THE  CATHEDRAL  OF  BRISTOL. 

Take,  holy  earth,  all  that  my  soul  holds  dear : 

Take  that  best  gift  which  Heaven  so  lately  gave : 

To  Bristol’s  fount  I bore  with  trembling  care 
Her  faded  form ; she  bowed  to  taste  the  wave. 

And  died ! Does  youth,  does  beauty,  read  the  line  ? 

Does  sympathetic  fear  their  breasts  alarm  ? 

Speak,  dead  Maria ! breathe  a strain  divine ; 

Even  from  the  grave  thou  shalt  have  power  to  charm. 
Bid  them  be  chaste,  be  innocent,  like  thee  ; 

Bid  them  in  duty’s  sphere  as  meekly  move : 

And  if  so  fair,  from  vanity  as  free, 

As  firm  in  friendship,  and  as  fond  in  love,  — 

Tell  them,  though  ’tis  an  awful  thing  to  die 

(’Twas  even  to  thee),  yet,  the  dread  path  once  trod. 
Heaven  lifts  its  everlasting  portals  high. 

And  bids  “ the  pure  in  heart  behold  their  God.” 

WILLIAM  MASON. 


INDEPENDENCE. 

I CARE  not.  Fortune,  what  you  me  deny : 

You  cannot  rob  me  of  free  Nature’s  grace : 

You  cannot  shut  the  windows  of  the  sky, 

Through  which  Aurora  shows  her  brightening  face  ; 
You  cannot  bar  my  constant  feet  to  trace 
The  woods  and  lawns,  by  living  stream  at  eve : 

Let  health  my  nerves  and  finer  fibres  brace. 

And  I their  toys  to  the  great  children  leave : 

Of  fancy,  reason,  virtue,  naught  can  me  bereave ! 


THOMSON. 


SELECTIONS  IN  POETRY. 


2V1 


IS  THERE,  FOR  HONEST  POVERTY. 

Is  there,  for  honest  poverty, 

That  hangs  his  head,  and  a’  that  ? 

The  coward-slave,  we  pass  him  by, 

We  dare  be  poor  for  a’  that ! 

For  a’  that,  and  a’  that. 

Our  toils  obscure,  and  a’  that, 

The  rank  is  but  the  guinea’s  stamp, 

The  man ’s  the  gowd  for  a’  that ! 

What  though  on  hamely  fare  we  dine, 
Wear  hoddin  gray,  and  a’  that  ? 

Grie  fools  their  silks,  and  knaves  their  wine, 
A man ’s  a man  for  a’  that ! 

For  a’  that,  and  a’  that. 

Their  tinsel  show,  and  a’  that. 

The  honest  man,  though  e’er  sae  poor. 

Is  king  o’  men  for  a’  that ! 

Ye  see  yon  birkie,  ca’d  a lord, 

Wha  struts,  and  stares,  and  a’  that ; 

Though  hundreds  worship  at  his  word, 

He ’s  but  a coof  for  a’  that ! 

For  a’  that,  and  a’  that. 

His  riband,  star,  and  a’  that. 

The  man  of  independent  mind. 

He  looks  and  laughs  at  a’  that ! 

A king  can  mak’  a belted  knight, 

A marquis,  duke,  and  a’  that ; 

Eut  an  honest  man ’s  aboon  his  might, 

Quid  faith  he  mauna  fa’  that  ? 


EVENING. 


213 


For  a’  that,  and  a’  that, 

Their  dignities,  and  a’  that, 

Tlie  pith  o’  sense  and  pride  o’  worth 
Are  higher  ranks  than  a’  that ! 

Then  let  us  pray  that  come  it  may,  — 

As  come  it  will,  for  a’  that,  — 

That  sense  and  worth,  o’er  a’  the  earth, 
May  bear  the  gree,  and  a’  that ! 

For  a’  that,  and  a’  that. 

It ’s  cornin’  yet,  for  a’  that. 

That  man  to  man,  the  warld  o’er. 

Shall  brothers  be  for  a’  that ! 

BURNS. 


EVENING. 

0,  Hesperus,  thou  bringest  all  good  things,  — 

Home  to  the  weary,  to  the  hungry,  cheer ; 

To  the  young  bird  the  parent’s  brooding  wings. 

The  welcome  stall  to  the  o’er-labored  steer ; 
Whate’er  of  peace  about  our  hearthstone  clings, 
Whate’er  our  household  gods  protect  of  dear. 

Are  gathered  round  us  by  thy  look  of  rest ; 

Thou  bring’st  the  child,  too,  to  the  mother’s  breast. 

Soft  hour ! which  wakes  the  wish  and  melts  the  heart 
Of  those  who  sail  the  seas,  on  the  first  day 
When  they  from  their  sweet  friends  are  torn  apart ; 

Or  fills  with  love  the  pilgrim  on  his  way. 

As  the  far  bell  of  vesper  makes  him  start. 

Seeming  to  weep  the  dying  day’s  decay ; 

Is  this  a fancy  which  our  reason  scorns  ? 

Ah  ! surely  nothing  dies  but  something  mourns. 


214 


SELECTIONS  IN  POETllY. 


When  Nero  perished  by  the  justest  doom 
Which  ever  the  destroyer  yet  destroyed, 

Amidst  the  roar  of  liberated  Eome, 

Of  nations  freed,  and  the  world  overjoyed, 

Some  hands  unseen  strewed  flowers  upon  his  tomb ; 

Perhaps  the  weakness  of  a heart  not  void 
Of  feeling  for  some  kindness  done,  when  power 
Had  left  the  wretch  an  uncorrupted  hour. 

BYRON. 


HOPE. 

How  many  there  are  who  sing  and  dream 
Of  happier  seasons  coming  ! 

And  ever  is  Fancy,  to  catch  a beam 
Of  a golden  era,  roaming. 

The  world  may  grow  old,  and  young  again, 

And  the  hope  of  a better  shall  still  remain. 

Hope  comes  with  life  at  its  dawning  hour  ; 

Hope  sports  with  the  infant  creeper ; 

Hope  cheers  up  the  youth,  with  her  magic  power 
And  when,  too,  the  gray-haired  weeper 
Has  closed  in  the  grave  his  weary  round. 

He  plants  the  tree  of  Hope  on  the  mound. 

It  is  not  an  empty,  vain  deceit. 

In  the  brains  of  fools  created ; 

It  speaks  to  the  soul  of  a state  more  meet, 

Where  its  longings  shall  all  be  sated. 

And  the  promise  the  indwelling  voice  thus  makes 
To  the  hoping  soul,  it  never  breaks. 


SCHILLER. 


THANKSGIVING. 


215 


THANKSGIVING. 

For  spring,  and  flowers  of  spring, 
Blossoms,  and  what  they  bring. 
Be  our  thanks  given ; 
Thanks  for  the  maiden’s  bloom. 
For  the  sad  prison’s  gloom, 

And  for  the  sadder  tomb. 

E’en  as  for  Heaven  ! 

Great  God,  thy  will  is  done, 

• When  the  soul’s  rivers  run 

Down  the  worn  cheeks ; 
Done  when  the  righteous  bleed ; 
When  the  wronged  vainly  plead  ; 
Done  in  the  unended  deed. 

When  the  heart  breaks. 

Lo  ! how  the  dutiful 
Snows  clothe  in  beautiful 

Life  the  dead  earth  ! 

Lo  ! how  the  clouds  distil 
liiches  o’er  vale  and  hill. 

While  the  storm’s  evil  will 
Dies  in  its  birth ! 

Blessed  is  the  unpeopled  down ; 
Blessed  is  the  crowded  town. 

Where  the  tired  groan ; 
Pain  but  appears  to  be ; 

What  are  man’s  fears  to  Thee, 
God  ! if  all  tears  shall  be 

Gems  on  thy  throne  ? 


ELLIOT. 


1 


210 


SELECTIONS  IN  POETRY. 


Lo  ! the  lilies  of  the  field, 

How  their  leaves  instruction  yield ! 
Hark  to  Nature’s  lesson  given 
By  the  blessed  birds  of  Heaven. 
Every  bush  and  tufted  tree 
Warbles  sweet  philosophy,  — 

“ Mortal,  fly  from  doubt  and  sorrow : 
God  provideth  for  the  morrow  ! 

“ Say,  with  richer  crimson  glows 
The  kingly  mantle  than  the  rose  ? 
Say,  have  kings  more  wholesome  fare 
Than  we  poor  citizens  of  air  ? 

Barns  nor  hoarded  grain  have  we, 
Yet  we  carol  merrily ; — 

Mortal,  fly  from  doubt  and  sorrow, 
God  provideth  for  the  morrow  ! 

‘‘  One  there  lives  whose  guardian  eye 
G uides  our  humble  destiny  ; 

One  there  lives,  who.  Lord  of  all. 
Keeps  our  feathers  lest  they  fall ; 


HUMAN  LIFE. 


217 


Pass  we  blithely,  then,  the  time. 
Fearless  of  the  snare  and  lime, 

Free  from  doubt  and  faithless  sorrow ; 
God  provideth  for  the  morrow ! ” 


HUMAN  LIFE. 

ON  THE  DENIAL  OF  IMMORTALITY. 

If  dead,  we  cease  to  be ; if  total  gloom 

Swallow  up  life’s  brief  flash  for  aye,  we  fare 
As  summer-gusts,  of  sudden  birth  and  doom. 

Whose  sound  and  motion  not  alone  declare, 

But  are^  their  whole  of  being ! If  the  breath 
Be  life  itself,  and  not  its  task  and  tent,  — 

If  even  a soul  like  Milton’s  can  know  death,  — 

0 man  I thou  vessel  purposeless,  unmeant, 

Yet  drone-hive  strange  of  phantom  purposes  ! 

Surplus  of  Nature’s  dread  activity. 

Which,  as  she  gazed  on  some  nigh-finished  vase, 
Betreating  slow,  with  meditative  pause. 

She  formed  with  restless  hands  unconsciously ! 
Blank  accident ! nothing’s  anomaly ! 

If  rootless  thus,  thus  substanceless  thy  state. 

Go,  weigh  thy  dreams,  and  be  thy  hopes,  thy  fears, 
The  counter- weights ! — thy  laughter  and  thy  tears 
Mean  but  themselves,  each  fittest  to  create. 

And  to  repay  the  other  ! Why  rejoices 
Thy  heart  with  hollow  joy  for  hollow  good  ? 
Why  cowl  thy  face  beneath  the  mourner’s  hood  ? 
Why  waste  thy  sighs,  and  thy  lamenting  voices, 

10 


218 


SELECTIONS  IN  POETKY. 


Image  of  image,  ghost  of  ghostly  elf, 

That  such  a thing  as  thou  feel’st  warm  or  cold  ? 
Yet  what  and  whence  thy  gain,  if  thou  withhold 
These  costless  shadows  of  thy  shadowy  self? 

Be  sad ! be  glad  I be  neither ! seek,  or  shun  ! 

Thou  hast  no  reason  why ! Thou  canst  have  none 
Thy  being’s  being  is  a contradiction. 

COLERIDGE. 


THE  DEATH  OF  SCHILLER. 

T IS  said,  when  Schiller’s  death  drew  nigh, 
The  wish  possessed  his  mighty  mind 

To  wander  forth  wherever  lie 

The  homes  and  haunts  of  human-kind. 

Then  strayed  the  poet,  in  his  dreams. 

By  Borne  and  Egypt’s  ancient  graves  ; 

Went  up  the  New  World’s  forest  streams. 
Stood  in  the  Hindoo’s  temple  caves ; 

Walked  with  the  Pawnee,  fierce  and  stark, 
The  sallow  Tartar,  midst  his  herds. 

The  peering  Chinese,  and  the  dark. 

False  Malay,  uttering  gentle  words. 

How  could  he  rest  ? even  then  he  trod 
The  threshold  of  the  world  unknown ; 

Already  from  the  seat  of  God 

A ray  upon  his  garments  shone  ; — 

Shone,  and  awoke  the  strong  desire 

For  love  and  knowledge  reached  not  here, 

Till,  freed  by  death,  his  soul  of  fire 
Sprang  to  a fairer,  ampler  sphere. 


CASTLES  IN  THE  AIll. 


t>19 


Then,  who  shall  tell  how  deep,  how  bright, 
The  abyss  of  glory  opened  round  ? 

How  thought  and  feeling  flowed  like  light, 
Through  ranks  of  being  without  bound  ? 


CASTLES  IN  THE  AIR. 

Farewell,  my  castles,  raised  so  high  ! 

Farewell,  ye  bowers  of  beauty ! 
From  your  enchantment  I must  fly 
To  sober  paths  of  duty. 

Ah ! many  an  hour  could  I employ. 
These  lovely  bowers  adorning, 

Till  every  airy  ball  of  joy 

Should  seem  a star  of  morning  ! 

But,  go,  vain  dreams,  depart ! 

Though  fondly  loved,  I feel  it. 

That  while  you  soothe  the  heart, 

From  better  things  you  steal  it. 

When  rose  the  storm  of  grief  and  care 
On  life’s  uncertain  billow, 

I sought  my  castles  in  the  air. 

And  found  a ready  pillow. 

Here  joys  to  come  were  always  shown, 
The  present  grief  dispelling ; 

For  future  woe  is  all  unknown 
In  my  aerial  dwelling. 

The  lesson  thus  was  lost. 

For  which  the  storm  was  given,  — 
To  show  the  tempest-tost 
A refuge  sure  in  heaven ! 


220 


SELECTIONS  IN  POETKY. 


Here  Hope,  though  cheated  o’er  and  o’er, 

I thought  would  dwell  securest ; 

And  deemed,  of  all  her  various  store. 

This  gift  the  best  and  surest. 

While  Fancy  strove,  with  magic  glass. 

To  raise  the  scene  ideal. 

Still  whispered  Hope,  — “ Though  this  may  pasr>, 
The  rest  will  sure  be  real.” 

Thus  many  a darling  theme 
Was  forming  and  undoing. 

But  still  a brighter  dream 
Arose  upon  the  ruin. 

Thus,  in  the  fields  of  wild  romance, 

I tarried  for  a season ; 

But  still,  at  every  change  and  chance, 

I heard  the  voice  of  Reason  : — 

0 ! at  some  holier,  happier  shrine. 

Devote  thy  thoughts  so  ranging, 

Whose  base  is  truth  and  love  divine, 

Its  fabric  never  changing. 

Thy  hopes  through  youth  and  age. 

If  thou  wilt  hither  guide  them. 

Though  tempests  rise  and  rage. 

Securely  shall  abide  them.” 

I raised  my  eyes  from  all  beneath, 

And  Hope  stood  in  the  portal ; 

She  held  an  amaranthine  wreath. 

And  promised  life  immortal ! 

I felt  the  scene  before  my  view 
Was  more  than  idle  seeming, 

And  wished  and  strove  to  bid  adieu 
To  all  my  days  of  dreaming. 


SONGS  OF  BEING. 


221 


Then  go,  vain  dreams,  depart ! 

Though  fondly  loved,  I feel  it, 
That,  while  you  soothe  the  heart, 
From  better  things  you  steal  it. 


SONGS  OF  BEINa 

THE  BIRTH. 

Hail  ! new-waked  atom  of  the  Eternal  whole, 
Young  voyager  upon  Time’s  mighty  river  ! 

Hail  to  thee,  Human  Soul ! 

Hail,  and  forever ! 

Pilgrim  of  life,  all  hail ! 

He  who  at  first  called  forth 
From  nothingness  the  earth. 

Who  clothed  the  hills  in  strength,  and  dug  the  sea, 
Who  gave  the  stars  to  gem 
Night  like  a diadem. 

Thou  little  child,  made  thee ; 

Young  habitant  of  earth. 

Fair  as  its  fiowers,  though  brought  in  sorrow  forth, 
Thou  art  akin  to  God  who  fashioned  thee ! 

The  heavens  themselves  shall  vanish  as  a scroll, 
The  solid  earth  dissolve,  the  stars  grow  pale. 

But  thou,  0 Human  Soul, 

Shalt  be  immortal ! Hail ! 

Thou  young  Immortal,  Hail ! 

He,  before  whom  are  dim 
Seraph  and  cherubim. 

Who  gave  the  archangels  strength  and  majesty, 


SELECTIONS  IN  POETRY. 


1 


Who  sits  upon  heaven’s  throne, 

The  everlasting  One, 

Thou  little  child,  made  thee ! 

Fair  habitant  of  earth. 

Immortal  in  thy  God,  though  mortal  by  thy  birth. 
Born  for  life’s  trials,  hail ! all  hail  to  thee ! 

THE  DEATH. 

Shrink  not,  0 Human  Spirit ! 

The  Everlasting  Arm  is  strong  to  save ! 

Look  up,  look  up,  frail  nature ! put  thy  trust 
In  Him  who  went  down  mourning  to  the  dust, 
And  overcame  the  grave  ! 

Quickly  goes  down  the  sun ; 

Life’s  work  is  almost  done ; 

Fruitless  endeavor,  hope  deferred,  and  strife ! 

One  little  struggle  more. 

One  pang,  and  then  is  o’er 
All  the  long,  mournful  weariness  of  life. 

Kind  friends,  ’t  is  almost  past ; 

Come  now,  and  look  your  last ! 

Sweet  children,  gather  near. 

And  his  last  blessing  hear. 

See  how  he  loved  you,  who  departeth  now  ! 

And,  with  thy  trembling  step  and  pallid  brow, 

0,  most  beloved  one, 

Whose  breast  he  leaned  upon. 

Come,  faithful  unto  death, 

Eeceive  his  parting  breath ! 

The  fluttering  spirit  panteth  to  be  free,  — 

Hold  him  not  back  who  speeds  to  victory ! 

— The  bonds  are  riven,  the  struggling  soul  is  free ! 


PROSE  AND  SONG. 


223 


Hail,  hail,  enfranchised  spirit ! 

Thou  that  the  wine-press  of  the  field  hath  trod  ! 
On,  blessed  Immortal,  on  through  boundless  space. 
And  stand  with  thy  Redeemer,  face  to  face. 

And  bow  before  thy  God  ! 

Life’s  weary  work  is  o’er, 

Thou  art  of  earth  no  more  : 

No  more  art  trammelled  by  the  oppressive  clay, 
But  tread’st  with  winged  ease 
The  high  acclivities 

Of  truths  sublime,  up  heaven’s  crystalline  way. 
Here  is  no  bootless  quest ; 

The  city’s  name  is  Best ; 

Here  shall  no  fear  appal ; 

Here  love  is  all  in  all ; 

Here  shalt  thou  win  thy  ardent  soul’s  desire ; 

Here  clothe  thee  in  thy  beautiful  attire, 

Lift,  lift  thy  wondering  eyes ! 

Yonder  is  Paradise, 

And  this  fair  shining  band 
Are  spirits  of  thy  land  ! 

And  these  that  throng  to  meet  thee  are  thy  kin, 
Who  have  awaited  thee,  redeemed  from  sin  ’ 

The  city  gates  unfold  — enter,  0,  enter  in  ' 


PROSE  AND  SONG. 

I LOOKED  upon  a plain  of  green. 

That  some  one  called  the  land  of  prose, 
Where  many  living  things  were  seen, 

In  movement  or  repose. 

I looked  upon  a stately  hill. 

That  well  was  named  the  mount  of  song. 


1 


224 


SELECTIONS  IN  POETRY. 

^Vliere  golden  shadows  dwelt  at  will, 

The  woods  and  streams  among. 

But  most  this  fact  my  wonder  bred, 

Though  known  by  all  the  nobly  wise,  — 

It  was  the  mountain  streams  that  fed 
The  fair  green  plain’s  amenities. 

JOHN  STERLING. 


AN  EVENING  REVERT. 

0 THOU  great  Movement  of  the  universe. 

Or  Change,  or  Flight  of  Time,  — for  ye  arc  one  ! — 
That  bearest,  silently,  this  visible  scene 
Into  night’s  shadow  and  the  streaming  rays 
Of  starlight,  whither  art  thou  bearing  me  ? 

1 feel  the  mighty  current  sweep  me  on, 

Yet  know  not  whither.  Man  foretells  afar 
The  courses  of  the  stars ; the  very  hour 

He  knows  when  they  shall  darken  or  grow  bright ; 
Yet  doth  the  eclipse  of  Sorrow  and  of  Death 
Come  unforewarned.  Who  nextj  of  those  I love, 
Shall  pass  from  life,  or,  sadder  yet,  shall  fall 
From  virtue?  Strife  with  foeSj  or  bitterer  strife 
With  friends,  or  shame  and  genend  scorn  of  men,  — 
Which  who  can  bear  ? — or  the  fierce  rack  of  pain, 
Lie  4hey  within  my  path  ? Or  shall  the  years 
Push  me,  with  soft  and  inofiensive  pace, 

Into  the  stilly  twilight  of  my  age  ? 

Or  do  the  portals  of  another  life. 

Even  now,  while  I am  glorying  in  my  strength. 
Impend  around  me  ? 0 ! beyond  that  bourn. 

In  the  vast  cycle  of  being  which  begins 


THE  GOLDEN  YEAR. 


225 


At  that  broad  threshold,  with  what  fairer  forms 
Shall  the  great  law  of  change  and  progress  clothe 
Its  workings  ? Gently,  — so  have  good  men  taught,  — 
Gently,  and  without  grief,  the  old  shall  glide 
Into  the  new ; the  eternal  flow  of  things. 

Like  a bright  river  of  the  fields  of  heaven. 

Shall  journey  onward  in  perpetual  peace ! 

BRYANT. 


THE  GOLDEN  YEAR. 

We  sleep  and  wake  and  sleep,  but  all  things  move ; 
The  sun  flies  forward  to  his  brother  sun ; 

The  dark  earth  follows,  wheeled  in  her  ellipse ; 

And  human  things,  returning  on  themselves. 

Move  onward,  leading  up  the  golden  year. 

Ah,  though  the  times  when  some  new  thought  can  bud 
Are  but  as  poets’  seasons  when  they  flower. 

Yet  seas  that  daily  gain  upon  the  shore 
Have  ebb  and  flow  conditioning  their  march. 

And  slow  and  sure  comes  up  the  golden  year. 

When  wealth  no  more  shall  rest  in  mounded  heaps. 
But,  smit  with  freer  light,  shall  slowly  melt 
In  many  streams,  to  fatten  lower  lands. 

And  light  shall  spread,  and  man  be  liker  man. 

Through  all  the  season  of  the  golden  year. 

Shall  eagles  not  be  eagles  ? wrens  be  wrens  ? 

If  all  the  world  were  falcons,  what  of  that  ? 

The  wonder  of  the  eagle  were  the  less. 

But  he  not  less  the  eagle.  Happy  days 
Roll  onward,  leading  up  the  golden  year ! 

10^^ 


o 


226 


SELECTIONS  IN  POETRY. 


Fly,  happy,  happy  sails,  and  bear  the  Press  ; 

Fly,  happy  with  the  mission  of  the  Cross ; 

Knit  land  to  land,  and,  blowing  havenward. 

With  silks,  and  fruits,  and  spices,  clear  of  toll, 
Enrich  the  markets  of  the  golden  year. 

But  we  grow  old.  Ah,  when  shall  all  men’s  good 
Be  each  man’s  rule,  and  universal  peace 
Lie  like  a shaft  of  light  across  the  land. 

And  like  a lane  of  beams  athwart  the  sea. 

Through  all  the  circle  of  the  golden  year  ? 

TENNYSON. 


CHEERFULNESS. 

See  how  the  day  beameth  brightly  before  us ! 

Blue  is  the  firmament,  green  is  the  earth ; 

Grief  hath  no  voice  in  the  universe  chorus, 

Nature  is  ringing  with  music  and  mirth. 

Lift  up  the  looks  that  are  sinking  in  sadness ; 

Gaze ! and  if  beauty  can  rapture  thy  soul, 
Virtue  herself  shall  allure  thee  to  gladness. 
Gladness  ! philosophy’s  guerdon  and  goal. 

Enter  the  treasuries  Pleasure  uncloses ; 

List ! how  she  trills  in  the  nightingale’s  lay ! 
Breathe ! she  is  wafting  the  sweets  from  the  roses ; 

Feel ! she  is  cool  in  the  rivulet’s  play; 

Taste  ! from  the  grape  and  the  nectarine  gushing. 
Flows  the  red  rill  in  the  beams  of  the  sun ; 
Green  in  the  hills  are  flower-groves  blushing ; 

Look ! she  is  always  and  everywhere  one. 

Banish,  then,  mourner,  the  tears  that  are  trickling 
Over  the  cheeks  that  should  rosily  bloom ; 


CHEEEFULNESS. 


227 


Why  should  a man,  like  a girl  or  a sickling, 

Suffer  his  lamp  to  be  quenched  in  the  tomb  ? 

Still  may  we  battle  for  good  and  for  beauty ; 

Still  has  philanthropy  much  to  essay ; 

Glory  rewards  the  fulfilment  of  duty ; 

Rest  will  pavilion  the  end  of  our  way. 

What  though  corroding  and  multiplied  sorrows, 
Legion-like,  darken  this  planet  of  ours  ? 

Hope  is  a balsam  the  wounded  heart  borrows. 

Even  when  anguish  hath  palsied  its  powers. 
Wherefore,  though  Fate  play  the  part  of  a traitor. 
Soar  o’er  the  stars  on  the  pinions  of  hope. 
Fearlessly  certain  that,  sooner  or  later. 

Over  the  stars  thy  desires  shall  have  scope ; — 

Look  round  about  on  the  face  of  creation  ! 

Still  is  God’s  earth  undistorted  and  bright ; 
Comfort  the  captive’s  too  long  tribulation, 

Thus  shalt  thou  reap  thy  more  perfect  delight. 
Love ! — but  if  love  be  a hallowed  emotion, 

Purity  only  its  rapture  should  share ; 

Love,  then,  with  willing  and  deathless  devotion. 

All  that  is  just,  and  exalted,  and  fair. 

Act ! for  in  action  are  wisdom  and  glory ; 

Fame,  immortality,  these  are  its  crown ; 

Wouldst  thou  illumine  the  tablets  of  story  ? 

Build  on  achievements  thy  doom  of  renown. 
Honor  and  feeling  were  given  to  cherish ; 

Cherish  them,  then,  though  all  else  should  decay ; 
Landmarks  be  these  that  are  never  to  perish. 

Stars  that  will  shine  on  the  duskiest  day. 


SELECTIONS  IN  POETRY. 


Courage ! disaster  and  peril,  once  over, 

Freshen  the  spirit  as  flowers  may  the  grove ; 

O’er  the  dim  graves  that  the  cypresses  cover, 

Soon  the  forget-me-not  rises  in  love. 

Courage,  then,  friends ! though  the  universe  crumble. 
Innocence,  dreadless  of  danger  beneath. 

Patient  and  trustful,  and  joyous  and  humble. 

Smiles  through  the  ruin  on  darkness  and  death ! 

SALIS. 


VESPERS. 

God,  that  mad’st  the  Earth  and  Heaven 
Darkness  and  light. 

Who  the  day  for  toil  hast  given. 

For  rest  the  night. 

May  thine  angel-guards  defend  us. 
Slumber  sweet  thy  mercy  send  us. 

Holy  dreams  and  hopes  attend  us. 

This  livelong  night ! 

HEBER. 


THE  KINGDOM  OF  GOD. 

“ For  behold  the  kingdom  of  God  is  within  you.” 

Pilgrim  to  the  heavenly  city. 

Groping  ’wildered  on  thy  way. 
Look  not  to  the  outward  landmark. 
List  not  what  the  blind  guides  say. 

For  long  years  thou  hast  been  seeking 
Some  new  idol  found  each  day  ; 

All  that  dazzled,  all  that  glittered. 
Lured  thee  from  the  path  away. 


THE  KINGDOM  OF  GOD. 


229 


On  the  outward  world  relying, 

Earthly  treasures  thou  wouldst  heap  ; 

Titled  friends  and  lofty  honors 
Lull  thy  higher  hopes  to  sleep. 

Thou  art  stored  with  worldly  wisdom, 

All  the  lore  of  books  is  thine ; 

And  within  thy  stately  mansion 
Brightly  sparkle  wit  and  wine. 

Richly  droop  the  silken  curtains. 

Round  those  high  and  mirrored  halls. 

And  on  mossy  Persian  carpets 
Silently  thy  proud  step  falls. 

Not  the  gentlest  wind  of  heaven 
Dares  too  roughly  fan  thy  brow. 

Nor  the  morning’s  blessed  sunbeams 
Tinge  thy  cheek  with  ruddy  glow. 

Yet,  ’midst  all  these  outward  riches. 

Has  thy  heart  no  void  confessed,  — 

Whispering,  though  each  wish  be  granted, 
“ Still,  0,  still  I am  not  blessed  ” ? 

And  when  happy,  careless  children. 

Lured  thee  with  their  winning  ways. 

Thou  hast  sighed,  in  vain  contrition, 

“ Give  me  back  those  golden  days ! ” 

Hadst  thou  stooped  to  learn  their  lesson,  — 
Truthful  preachers,  — they  had  told 

Thou  thy  kingdom  hadst  forsaken. 

Thou  hadst  thy  own  birthright  sold. 


SELECTIONS  IN  POETRY. 


Thou  art  heir  to  vast  possessions,  — 

Up  and  boldly  claim  thine  own  ! 

Seize  the  crown  that  waits  thy  wearing, 

Leap  at  once  into  thy  throne ! 

Look  not  to  some  cloudy  mansion, 

’Mong  the  planets  far  away  ; 

Trust  not  to  the  distant  future. 

Let  thy  heaven  begin  to-day ! 

When  thy  struggling  soul  hath  conquered, 
When  the  path  lies  fair  and  clear. 

When  thou  art  prepared  for  heaven. 

Thou  wilt  find  that  heaven  is  here. 

HARRIET  WINSLOW. 


THE  SONNET. 

Scorn  not  the  Sonnet.  Critic,  you  have  frowned, 
Mindless  of  its  just  honors  : with  this  key 
Shakspeare  unlocked  his  heart ; the  melody 
Of  this  small  lute  gave  ease  to  Petrarch’s  wound ; 
A thousand  times  this  pipe  did  Tasso  sound ; 
Camdens  soothed  with  it  an  exile’s  grief ; 

The  sonnet  glittered  a gay  myrtle-leaf 
Amid  the  cypress  with  which  Dante  crowned 
His  visionary  brow ; a glow-worm  lamp. 

It  cheered  mild  Spenser,  called  from  Faery -land 
To  struggle  through  dark  ways ; and,  when  a damp 
Fell  round  the  path  of  Milton,  in  his  hand 
The  thing  became  a trumpet,  whence  he  blew 
Soul-animating  strains,  — alas,  too  few ! 


WORDSWORTH. 


MONODY. 


231 


MONODY. 

ON  THE  DEATH  OF  LIEUT.  WM.  HOWARD  ALLEN,  OF  THE  AMERICAN 
NAVY. 

He  hath  been  mourned  as  brave  men  mourn  the  brave, 
And  wept  as  nations  weep  their  cherished  dead, 

With  bitter,  but  proud  tears  ; and  o’er  his  head ' 

The  eternal  flowers,  whose  root  is  in  the  grave. 

The  flowers  of  Fame,  are  beautiful  and  green  ; 

And  by  his  grave’s  side  pilgrim-feet  have  been. 

And  blessings,  pure  as  men  to  martyrs  give. 

Have  there  been  breathed  by  those  he  died  to  save. 
Pride  of  his  country’s  banded  chivalry. 

His  fame  their  hope,  his  name  their  battle-cry. 

He  lived  as  mothers  wish  their  sons  to  live,  — 

He  died  as  fathers  wish  their  sons  to  die. 

If  on  the  grief-worn  cheek  the  hues  of  bliss. 

Which  fade  when  all  we  love  is  in  the  tomb, 

Could  ever  know  on  earth  a second  bloom, 

The  memory  of  a gallant  death  like  his 

Would  call  them  into  being  ; — but  the  few 
Who,  as  their  friend,  their  brother,  or  their  son. 

His  kind,  warm  heart,  and  gentle  spirit  knew. 

Had  long  lived,  hoped  and  feared,  for  him  alone ; 

His  voice  their  morning  music,  and  his  eye 
The  only  starlight  of  their  evening  sky. 

Till  even  the  sun  of  happiness  seemed  dim. 

And  life’s  best  joys  were  sorrows  but  with  him  ; 

And  when,  the  burning  bullet  in  his  breast. 

He  dropped,  like  summer  fruit  from  off  the  bough, 
There  was  one  heart  that  knew  and  loved  him  best,  — 

It  was  a mother’s,  — and  is  broken  now ! 


HALLECK, 


232 


SELECTIONS  IN  POETRY. 


HAPPIEST  DAYS. 

They  tell  us,  Love,  that  you  and  I 
Our  happiest  days  are  seeing. 

While  yet  is  shut  from  either’s  eye 
The  change  that  waits  on  being. 

Ah  ! life  they  say ’s  a weary  way, 

With  less  of  joy  than  sorrow  ; 

For  where  the  sunlight  falls  to-day 
There  ’ll  l)e  a shade  to-morrow. 

If  ours  be  love  that  will  not  bear 
The  test  of  change  and  sorrow, 

And  only  deeper  channels  wear 
In  passing  to  each  morrow, 

Then  better  were  it  that  to-day 
We  fervently  were  praying. 

That  what  we  have  might  pass  away 
While  we  the  words  were  saying. 

The  heart  has  depths  of  bitterness. 

As  well  as  depths  of  pleasure  ; 

And  those  who  love,  love  not,  unless 
They  both  of  these  can  measure. 

There  is  a time,  and  it  will  come. 

When  this  they  must  discover ; 

And  woe  if  either  then  be  dumb 
To  power  that  moved  the  Lover ! 

There  are  some  spots  where  each  may  fall. 
And  each  will  need  sustaining ; 

And  suffering  is  the  lot  of  all. 

And  is  of  God’s  ordaining  ; 


I DREAM  OF  ALL  THINGS  FREE. 


233 


Then  wherefore  do  our  hearts  unite 
In  bonds  that  none  can  sever, 

If  not  to  bless  each  changing  light, 

And  strengthen  each  endeavor  ? 

Then,  while  these  happy  days  we  bless. 

Let  us  no  doubt  be  sowing ; 

God’s  mercy  never  will  be  less, 

Though  He  should  change  the  showing. 
Such  be  our  faith,  as  on  we  tread, 

Each  trusting  and  obeying. 

As  two  who  by  His  hand  are  led, 

And  hear  what  He  is  saying. 


I DREAM  OF  ALL  THINGS  FREE. 

I DREAM  of  all  things  free  ! 

Of  a gallant,  gallant  bark. 

That  sweeps  through  storm  and  sea, 
Like  an  arrow  to  its  mark  ! 

Or  a stag  that  o’er  the  hills 
Goes  bounding  in  his  glee ; 

Of  a thousand  flashing  rills,  — 

Of  all  things  glad  and  free. 

I dream  of  some  proud  bird, 

A bright-eyed  mountain  king ! 

In  my  visions  I have  heard 
The  rushing  of  his  wing. 

I follow  some  wild  river. 

On  whose  breast  no  sail  may  oo ; 

Dark  woods  around  it  shiver,  — 

I dream  of  aU  things  free ! 


2U 


SELECTIONS  IN  POETRY. 


Of  a happy  forest  child, 

With  the  fawns  and  flowers  at  play  , 

Of  an  Indian  midst  the  wild, 

With  the  stars  to  guide  his  way  , 

Of  a chief  his  warriors  leading. 

Of  an  archer’s  green-wood  tree  : - — 

My  heart  in  chains  is  bleeding. 

And  I dream  of  all  things  free ! 

MRS.  HEMANS. 


A CHRISTMAS  HYMN. 

It  was  the  calm  and  silent  night ! — 

Seven  hundred  years  and  fifty-three 
Had  Home  been  growing  up  to  might. 

And  now  was  queen  of  land  and  sea  I 
No  sound  was  heard  of  clashing  wars. 

Peace  brooded  o’er  the  hushed  domain  ; 
Apollo,  Pallas,  Jove  and  Mars, 

Held  undisturbed  their  ancient  reign. 

In  the  solemn  midnight, 

Centuries  ago ! 

’T  was  in  the  calm  and  silent  night ! 

The  senator  of  haughty  Home 
Impatient  urged  his  chariot’s  flight, 

From  lordly  revel  rolling  home. 

Triumphal  arches,  gleaming,  swell 

His  breast  with  thoughts  of  boundless  sway ; 
What  recked  the  Homan  what  befell 
A paltry  province  far  away, 

In  the  solemn  midnight, 

Centuries  ago  ? 


A CHRISTMAS  HYMN. 


235 


Within  that  province  far  away 

Went  plodding  home  a weary  boor ; 

A streak  of  light  before  him  lay, 

Fallen  through  a half-shut  stable-door 
Across  his  path.  He  paused,  for  naught 
Told  what  was  going  on  within ; 

How  keen  the  stars,  his  only  thought ; 

The  air  how  calm,  and  cold,  and  thin. 

In  the  solemn  midnight. 

Centuries  ago ! 

0,  strange  indifference  ! — low  and  high 
Drowsed  over  common  joys  and  cares ; 
The  earth  was  still,  but  knew  not  why ; 

The  world  was  listening  — unawares ! 
How  calm  a moment  may  precede 

One  that  shall  thrill  the  world  forever ! 
To  that  still  moment,  none  would  heed, 
Man’s  doom  was  linked,  no  more  to  sever. 
In  the  solemn  midnight, 

Centuries  ago ! 

It  is  the  calm  and  solemn  night ! 

A thousand  bells  ring  out,  and  throw 
Their  joyous  peals  abroad,  and  smite 
The  darkness,  charmed  and  holy  now  ! 
The  night  that  erst  no  shame  had  worn. 

To  it  a happy  name  is  given ; 

For  in  that  stable  lay,  new-born. 

The  peaceful  Prince  of  earth  and  heaven. 
In  the  solemn  midnight. 

Centuries  ago ! 


ALFRED  DOMETT. 


236 


SELECTIONS  IN  POETRY. 


THE  PAST  MAKES  THE  FUTURE. 

Time,  as  he  onward  courses,  still  unrolls 
The  volume  of  concealment.  In  the  future, 
As  in  the  optician’s  glassy  cylinder. 

The  undistinguishable  blots  and  colors 
Of  the  dim  past  collect  and  shape  themselves. 
Upstarting  in  their  own  completed  image 
To  scare  or  to  reward. 

COLERIDGE. 


THE  HOME  OF  THY  REST. 

I KNOW  thou  art  gone  to  the  home  of  thy  rest,  — 
Then  why  should  my  soul  be  so  sad  ? 

I know  thou  art  gone  where  the  weary  are  blest, 

And  the  mourner  looks  up  and  is  glad ; 

Where  Love  hath  put  off,  in  the  land  of  its  birth. 

The  stain  it  had  gathered  in  this ; 

And  Hope,  the  sweet  singer,  that  gladdened  the  earth. 
Lies  asleep  on  the  bosom  of  Bliss. 

I know  thou  art  gone  where  thy  forehead  is  starred 
With  the  beauty  that  dwelt  in  thy  soul ; 

Where  the  light  of  thy  loveliness  cannot  be  marred, 
Nor  thy  spirit  flung  back  from  its  goal. 

I know  thou  hast  drunk  of  the  Lethe  that  flows 
Through  a land  where  they  do  not  forget ; 

Which  sheds  over  Memory  only  repose, 

And  takes  from  it  only  regret. 

In  thy  far-away  dwelling,  wherever  it  be, 

I believe  thou  hast  visions  of  mine  ; 

For  the  love  that  made  all  things  as  music  to  me 
I have  not  yet  learned  to  resign. 


THE  HOME  OF  THY  REST. 


237 


In  the  hush  of  the  night,  on  the  waste  of  the  sea, 

Or  alone  with  the  breeze  on  the  hill, 

I have  ever  a presence  that  whispers  of  thee, 

And  my  spirit  lies  down  and  is  still. 

The  eye  must  be  dark,  that  so  long  hath  been  dim, 
Ere  again  it  may  gaze  upon  thine ; 

But  my  heart  hath  revealings  of  thee  and  thy  home, 
In  many  a token  and  sign. 

I never  look  up,  with  a vow,  to  the  sky, 

But  a light  like  thy  beauty  is  there ; 

And  I hear  a low  murmur  like  thine  in  reply. 

When  I pour  out  my  spirit  in  prayer. 

And  though,  like  a mourner  that  sits  by  a tomb, 

I am  wrapt  in  a mantle  of  care. 

Yet  the  grief  of  my  spirit  — 0,  call  it  not  gloom  ! — - 
Is  not  the  black  grief  of  Despair. 

By  Sorrow  revealed,  as  the  stars  are  by  night. 

Far  off  a bright  vision  appears ; 

And  Hope,  like  the  rainbow,  a being  of  light, 

Is  born,  like  the  rainbow,  of  tears  ! 


T.  K.  HERVEY. 


238 


SELECTIONS  IN  POETRY. 


THE  GLIMPSE. 

Our  many  deeds,  the*  thoughts  that  we  have  thought, 
They  go  out  from  us,  thronging  every  hour ; 

And  in  them  all  is  folded  up  a power 
That  on  the  earth  doth  move  them  to  and  fro ; 

And  mighty  are  the  marvels  they  have  wrought, 

III  hearts  we  know  not,  and  may  never  know ! 

Our  actions  travel,  and  are  veiled  : and  yet 
We  sometimes  catch  a fearful  glimpse  of  one. 

When  out  of  sight  its  march  hath  well-nigh  gone ; 

An  unveiled  thing  which  we  can  ne’er  forget ! 

All  sins  it  gathers  up  into  its  course. 

And  they  do  grow  with  it,  and  are  its  force  ; 

One  day,  with  dizzy  speed,  that  thing  shall  come. 
Recoiling  on  the  heart  that  was  its  home. 

F.  W.  FABER. 


HUMAN  LOVE. 

0,  IF  there  is  one  law  above  the  rest 
Written  in  wisdom,  — if  there  is  a word 
That  I would  trace  as  with  a pen  of  fire 
Upon  the  unsunned  temper  of  a child,  — 

If  there  is  anything  that  keeps  the  mind 
Open  to  angel  visits,  and  repels 
The  ministry  of  ill,  — ’t  is  human  love  ! 

Grod  has  made  nothing  worthy  of  contempt. 

The  smallest  pebble  in  the  well  of  truth 
Has  its  peculiar  meaning,  and  will  stand 
When  man’s  best  monuments  have  passed  away. 
The  law  of  heaven  is  love,  and  though  its  name 
Has  been  usurped  by  passion,  and  profaned 


RICHES. 


239 


To  its  unholy  uses  through  all  time, 

\ Still  the  eternal  principle  is  pure  ; 

And,  in  these  deep  affections  that  we  feel 

Omnipotent  within  us,  we  but  see 

The  lavish  measure  in  which  love  is  given  ; 

And,  in  the  yearning  tenderness  of  a child 
For  every  bird  that  sings  above  his  head. 

And  every  creature  feeding  on  the  hills. 

And  every  tree,  and  flower,  and  running  brook, 
We  see  how  everything  was  made  to  love, — 

And  how  they  err,  who,  in  a world  like  this, 

Find  anything  to  hate  but  human  pride  ’ 

WILLIS. 


RICHES. 

Say,  then,  thou  man  of  wealth,  in  what  degree 
May  thy  proud  fortunes  over-balance  me  ? 

Tliy  many  barks  plough  the  rough  ocean’s  back,  - 
And  I am  never  frighted  with  a wrack. 

Thy  flocks  of  sheep  are  numberless  to  tell,  — 
And  with  one  fleece  I can  be  clothed  as  well. 
Thou  hast  a thousand  several  farms  to  let,  — 
And  I do  feed  on  ne’er  a tenant’s  sweat. 

Thou  hast  the  commons  to  enclosure  brought,  — 
And  I have  fixt  a bound  to  my  vast  thought. 
Variety  is  sought  for  to  (Jelight 
Thy  witty  and  ambitious  appetite ; 

Three  elements  at  least  dis-peopled  be. 

To  satisfy  judicious  gluttony  ; — 

And  yet,  for  this,  I love  my  commons  here 
Above  the  choicest  of  thy  dainty  cheer. 


SELECTIONS  IN  POETIIY. 


No  widow’s  curse  caters  a dish  of  mine, 

I drink  no  tears  of  orphans  in  my  wine. 

Thou  may’st,  perchance,  to  some  great  office  come, 
And  I can  rule  a commonwealth  at  home. 

And  that  preeminence  enjoy  more  free 
Than  thou,  puffed  up  with  vain  authority. 

What  boots  it  him  a large  command  to  have. 
Whose  every  part  is  some  poor  vice’s  slave, 

Which  over  him  as  proudly  lords  it  there. 

As  o’er  the  rustic  he  can  domineer  ? 

THOS.  RANDOLPH. 


CORN-FIELDS. 

In  the  young  merry  time  of  spring. 
When  clover  ’gins  to  burst, 

When  bluebells  nod  within  the  wood. 
And  sweet  May  whitens  first, 
When  merle  and  mavis  sing  their  fill. 
Green  is  the  young  corn  on  the  hill. 

But  when  the  merry  spring  is  past. 
And  summer  groweth  bold, 

And  in  the  garden  and  the  field 
A thousand  flowers  unfold. 

Before  a green  leaf  yet  is  sere, 

The  young  corn  shoots  into  the  ear. 

But  then,  as  day  and  night  succeed, 
And  summer  weareth  on, 

And  in  the  flowery  garden-beds 
The  red  rose  groweth  wan. 

And  hollyhocks  and  sunflowers  tall 
O’er  top  the  mossy  garden  wall ; . 


CORN-FIELDS. 


241 


VVlien  on  the  breath  of  autumn  breeze, 
From  pastures  dry  and  brown, 

Goes  floating,  like  an  idle  thought. 

The  fair,  white  thistle-down ; 

0,  then  what  joy  to  walk  at  will 
Upon  the  golden  harvest-hill ! 

What  joy  in  dreamy  ease  to  lie 
Amid  a field  new-shorn. 

And  see  all  round,  on  sunlit  slopes, 
The  piled-up  shocks  of  corn, 

And  send  the  fancy  wandering  o’er 
All  pleasant  harvest-fields  of  yore ! 

I feel  the  day  ; I see  the  field ; 

The  quivering  of  the  leaves ; 

And  good  old  Jacob  and  his  house 
Binding  the  yellow  sheaves ; 

And  at  this  very  hour  I seem 
To  be  with  Joseph  in  his  dream* 

I see  the  fields  of  Bethlehem, 

And  reapers  many  a one. 

Bending  unto  their  sickle’s  stroke. 
And  Boaz  looking  on ; 

And  Buth,  the  Moabitess  fair. 

Among  the  gleaners  stooping  there. 

Again : I see  a little  child, 

His  mother’s  sole  delight ; 

God’s  living  gift  of  love  unto 
The  kind,  good  Shunamite ; 

To  mortal  pangs  I see  him  yield. 

And  the  lad  bear  him  from  the  field* 
11  p 


242 


SELECTIONS  IN  POETRY. 


The  sun-bathed  quiet  of  the  hills, 

The  fields  of  Galilee, 

That  eighteen  hundred  years  agone 
Were  full  of  corn,  I see ; 

And  the  dear  Saviour  take  his  way 
’Mid  ripe  ears  on  the  Sabbath  day. 

0,  golden  fields  of  bending  corn. 

How  beautiful  they  seem  ! 

> The  reaper-folk,  the  piled-up  sheaves. 

To  me  are  like  a dream  ; 

The  sunshine  and  the  very  air 
Seem  of  old  time,  and  take  me  there  ! 

MARY  IIOWITT. 


OF  SOLITUDF. 

Hail,  old  patrician  trees,  so  great  and  good ! 
Hail,  ye  plebeian  underwood  ! 

Where  the  poetic  birds  rejoice. 

And  for  their  quiet  nests  and  plenteous  food 
Pay  with  their  grateful  voice. 

Hail,  the  poor  muse’s  richest  manor-seat ! 

Ye  country  houses  and  retreat. 

Which  all  the  happy  gods  so  love. 

That  for  you  oft  they  quit  their  bright  and  great 
Metropolis  above. 

Here  Nature  does  a house  for  me  erect,— 
Nature ! the  wisest  architect. 

Who  those  fond  artists  does  despise 
That  can  the  fair  and  living  trees  neglect. 

Yet  the  dead  timber  prize. 


TEMPERANCE. 


243 


Here  let  me,  careless  and  unthoughtful  lying, 
Hear  the  soft  winds  above  me  flying, 

"With  all  their  wanton  boughs  dispute, 

And  the  more  tuneful  birds  to  both  replying, 
Nor  be  myself,  too,  mute. 

A silver  stream  shall  roll  his  waters  near, 

Gilt  with  the  sunbeams  here  and  there^ 

On  whose  enamelled  bank  I ’ll  walk, 

And  see  how  prettily  they  smile, 

And  hear  how  prettily  they  talk. 

Ah ! wretched  and  too  solitary  he 
Who  loves  not  his  own  company  ! 

He  ’ll  feel  the  weight  of ’t  many  a day, 

Unless  he  call  in  sin  or  vanity, 

To  help  to  bear ’t  away. 

.COWLEY. 


TEMPERANCE, 

Impostor  ! do  not  charge  most  innocent  Nature, 
As  if  she  would  her  children  should  be  riotous 
With  her  abundance ; she,  good  cateress. 

Means  her  provision  only  to  the  good, 

That  live  according  to  her  sober  laws, 

And  holy  dictate  of  spare  temperance. 

If  every  just  man  that  now  pines  with  want 
Had  but  a moderate  and  beseeming  share 
Of  that  which  lewdly-pampered  luxury 
Now  heaps  upon  some  few  with  vast  excess, 
Nature’s  full  blessings  would  be  well  dispensed 
In  unsuperfluous  even  proportion. 

And  she  no  whit  encumbered  with  her  store  * 


244 


SELECTIONS  IN  POETRY. 


And  then  the  Giver  would  be  better  thanked, 
His  praise  due  paid ; for  swinish  Gluttony 
Ne’er  looks  to  heaven  amidst  his  gorgeous  feast, 
But,  with  besotted,  base  ingratitude. 

Crams,  and  blasphemes  his  feeder. 

MILTON. 


THE  HONEST  ]\UN. 

Wordsworth  must  have  had  the  following  in  his  mind,  though  perhaps  uncon- 
sciously, when  he  penned  his  noble  poem  of  The  Happy  Warrior. 

Who  is  the  honest  man  ? 

He  that  doth  still  and  strongly  good  pursue. 

To  God,  his  neighbor  and  himself,  most  true. 

Whom  neither  force  nor  fawning  can 
Unfix  or  wrench  from  giving  all  their  due. 

Whose  honesty  is  not 

So  loose  or  easy  that  a ruffling  wind  - 

Can  blow  away,  or,  glittering,  look  it  blind ; 

Who  rides  his  sure  and  easy  trot, 

While  the  world  now  rides  by,  now  lags  behind. 

Who,  when  great  trials  come, 

Nor  seeks  nor  shuns  them ; but  doth  calmly  stay 
Till  he  the  thing  and  the  example  weigh ; 

All  being  brought  into  a sum. 

What  place  or  person  calls  for,  he  doth  pay. 

Whom  none  can  work  or  woo 
To  use  in  anything  a trick  or  sleight ; 

For,  above  all  things,  he  abhors  deceit  I 
His  words  and  works,  and  fashion,  too, 

All  of  a piece,  and  all  are  clear  and  straight. 


THE  PARROT. 


245 


Who  never  melts  or  thaws 

At  close  temptations ; when  the  day  is  done, 

His  goodness  sets  not,  but  in  dark  can  run ; — 

The  sun  to  others  writeth  laws, 

And  is  their  virtue ; virtue  is  his  sun. 

Who,  when  he  is  to  treat 

With  sick  folks,  women,  those  whom  passions  sway 
Allows  for  that,  and  keeps  his  constant  way : 
Whom  others’  faults  do  not  defeat. 

But,  though  men  fail  him,  yet  his  part  doth  play. 

Whom  nothing  can  procure. 

When  the  whole  world  runs  bias  from  his  will, 

To  writhe  his  limbs,  and  share,  not  mend,  the  ill. 
This  is  the  marksman  safe  and  sure. 

Who  still  is  right,  and  prays  to  be  so  still. 

HERBERT. 


THE  PAKROT. 

This  incident,  so  strongly  illustrating  the  power  of  memory  and  association 
in  the  lower  animals,  is  not  a fiction.  I heard  it  many  years  ago,  in  the  Island 
of  Mull,  from  the  family  to  whom  the  bird  belonged. 

The  deep  affections  of  the  breast. 

That  Heaven  to  living  things  imparts. 

Are  not  exclusively  possessed 
By  human  hearts. 

A parrot  from  the  Spanish  Main, 

Full  young  and  early  caged,  came  o’er 
With  bright  wings  to  the  bleak  domain 
Of  Mulla’s  shore. 


246 


SELECTIONS  IN  POETRY. 


The  spicy  groves  where  he  had  won 
His  plumage  of  resplendent  hue, 

His  native  fruits,  and  skies,  and  sun. 

He  bade  adieu ! 

For  these  he  changed,  the  smoke  of  tuiT, 

A heathery  land  and  misty  sky. 

And  turned  on  rocks  and  raging  surf 
His  golden  eye. 

But,  petted  in  our  climate  cold. 

He  lived  and  chattered  many  a day  ; 
Until,  with  age,  from  green  and  gold. 

His  wings  grew  gray. 

At  last,  when,  blind  and  seeming  dumb, 

He  scolded,  laughed,  and  spoke  no  more, 
A Spanish  stranger  chanced  to  come 
To  Mulla’s  shore. 

He  hailed  the  bird  in  Spanish  speech  ; 

The  bird  in  Spanish  speech  replied. 
Flapped  round  his  cage  with  joyous  screech. 
Dropped  down  and  died  ! 

CAMPBELL. 


PERSECUTION. 

Let  those  who  doubt  the  heavenly  source 
Of  revelation’s  page  divine 
Use  as  their  weapons  fraud  and  force,  — 
No  such  unhallowed  arms  are  mine. 

I only  wield  its  holy  word, 

Reason  its  shield,  and  truth  its  sword. 


PERSECUTION. 


24 


I doubt  not ; — my  religion  stands 
A beacon  on  the  eternal  rock. 

Let  malice  throw  her  fiery  brands,  — 

Its  sacred  fane  has  stood  the  shock 
Of  ages,  and  shall  tower  sublime 
Above  the  waves  and  winds  of  time. 

Infinite  wisdom  formed  the  plan  ; 

Infinite  power  supports  the  pile  ; 

Infinite  goodness  poured  on  man 
Its  radiant  light,  its  cheering  smile. 

Need  they  thine  aid  ? — poor  worm ! — thine  aid 
0 mad  presumption,  vain  parade ! 

Thou  wilt  not  trust  the  Almighty  One 
With  his  own  thunders  ; thou  wouldst  throw 
The  bolts  of  heaven ! — 0 senseless  son 
Of  dust  and  darkness ! — Spider  ! go. 

And  with  thy  cobweb  bind  the  tide, 

And  the  swift,  dazzling  comet  guide. 

Yes  ! force  has  conquering  reasons  given. 

And  chains  and  tortures  argue  well. 

And  thou  hast  proved  thy  faith  from  heaven 
By  weapons  thou  hast  brought  from  hell. 

Yes  ! thou  hast  made  thy  title  good, 

For  thou  hast  signed  the  deed  with  blood. 

Daring  impostor  ! sure  that  God 
Whose  advocate  thou  feign ’st  to  be 
Will  smite  thee  with  that  awful  rod 
Which  thou  would’st  seize  ; and  pour  on  thee 
The  vial  of  that  wrath  which  thou 
Wouldst  empty  on  thy  brother’s  brow ! 


BOWRING. 


48 


SELECTIONS  IN  POETRY. 


SPIRITUAL  POPULATION  OF  THE  UNIVERSE. 

Nor  think,  though  men  were  none, 

That  heaven  would  want  spectators,  God  want  praise. 
Millions  of  spiritual  creatures  walk  the  earth 
Unseen,  both  when  we  wake  and  when  we  sleep. 

All  these  with  ceaseless  praise  His  works  behold. 
Both  day  and  night.  How  often  from  the  steep 
Of  echoing  hill  or  thickets  have  we  heard 
Celestial  voices  to  the  midnight  air, 

Sole,  or  responsive  to  each  other’s  note. 

Singing  their  great  Creator ! Oft  in  bands. 

While  they  keep  watch,  or  nightly  rounding  walk. 
With  heavenly  touch  of  instrumental  sounds 
In  full  harmonic  numbers  joined,  their  songs 
Divide  the  night,  and  lift  our  thoughts  to  Heaven. 

MILTOX. 


MAY  MORNING  AT  RAVENNA. 

The  sun  is  up,  and ’t  is  a morn  of  May 

Bound  old  Bavenna’s  clear-shown  towers  and  bay, — 

A morn  the  loveliest  which  the  year  has  seen. 

Last  of  the  spring,  yet  fresh  with  all  its  green  ; 

For  a warm  eve,  and  gentle  rains  at  night, 

Have  left  a sparkling  welcome  for  the  light, 

And  there ’s  a crystal  clearness  all  about ; 

The  leaves  are  sharp,  the  distant  hills  look  out ; 

A balmy  briskness  comes  upon  the  breeze  ; 

The  smoke  goes  dancing  from  the  cottage  trees ; 

And  when  you  listen,  you  may  hear  a coil 
Of  bubbling  springs  about  the  grassy  soil ; 

And  all  the  scene,  in  short,  — sky,  earth,  and  sea, — 


THE  TREE  LIFE. 


249 


Breathes  like  a bright-eyed  face,  that  laughs  out  openly, 
’T  is  Nature,  full  of  spirits,  waked  and  springing : — 
The  birds  to  the  delicious  time  are  singing. 

Darting  with  freaks  and  snatches  up  and  down. 

Where  the  light  woods  go  seaward  from  the  town  ; 

While  happy  faces,  striking  through  the  green 
Of  leafy  roads,  at  every  turn  are  seen ; 

And  the  far  ships,  lifting  their  sails  of  white 
Like  joyful  hands,  come  up  with  scattery  light. 

Come  gleaming  up,  true  to  the  wished-for  day. 

And  chase  the  whistling  brine,  and  swirl  into  the  bay. 
Already  in  the  streets  the  stir  grows  loud. 

Of  expectation  and  a bustling  crowd. 

With  feet  and  voice  the  gathering  hum  contends, 

The  deep  talk  heaves,  the  ready  laugh  ascends ; 

Callings,  and  clapping  doors,  and  curs  unite. 

And  shouts  from  mere  exuberance  of  delight. 

And  armed  bands,  making  important  way. 

Gallant  and  grave,  the  lords  of  holiday. 

And  nodding  neighbors,  greeting  as  they  run, 

And  pilgrims,  chanting  in  the  morning  sun. 

LEIGH  HUNT. 


THE  TRUE  LIFE. 

W E live  in  deeds,  not  years ; in  thoughts,  not  breaths  ; 
In  feelings,  not  in  figures  on  a dial. 

We  should  count  time  by  heart-throbs.  He  most  lives 
Who  thinks  most,  feels  the  noblest,  acts  the  best. 

And  he  whose  heart  beats  quickest  lives  the  longest ; 
Lives  in  one  hour  more  than  in  years  do  some 
Whose  fat  blood  sleeps  as  it  slips  along  their  veins. 

P.  J.  BAILEY. 


ll^ 


•250 


SELECTIONS  IN  POETRY. 


THE  PRISON. 

And  this  place  my  forefathers  made  for  man! 

This  is  the  process  of  our  love  and  wisdom 
To  each  poor  brother  who  offends  against  us,  — 

IMost  innocent,  perhaps,  — and  what  if  guilty  ? 

Is  this  the  only  cure  ? Merciful  God ! 

Each  pore  and  natural  outlet  shrivelled  up 
By  ignorance  and  parching  poverty, 

His  energies  roll  back  upon  his  heart, 

And  stagnate  and  corrupt,  till,  changed  to  poison. 
They  break  out  on  him,  like  a loathsome  plague-spot ! 
Then  we  call  in  our  pampered  mountebanks ! 

And  this  is  their  best  cure  ! uncomforted 
And  friendless  solitude,  groaning  and  tears  ; 

And  savage  faces,  at  the  clanking  hour. 

Seen  through  the  steam  and  vapors  of  his  dungeon 
By  the  lamp’s  dismal  twilight ! So  he  lies 
Circled  with  evil,  till  his  very  soul 
Unmoulds  its  essence,  hopelessly  deformed 
By  sights  of  ever  more  deformity  ! 

With  other  ministrations  thou,  0 Nature ! 

Healest  thy  wandering  and  distempered  child  : 

Thou  pourest  on  him  thy  soft  influences, 

Thy  sunny  hues,  fair  forms,  and  breathing  sweets,  — 
Thy  melodies  of  woods,  and  winds,  and  waters, — 

Till  he  relent,  and  can  no  more  endure 
To  be  a jarring  and  a dissonant  thing 
Amid  this  general  dance  and  minstrelsy  ; 

But,  bursting  into  tears,  wins  back  his  way. 

His  angry  spirit  healed  and  harmonized 
By  the  benignant  touch  of  love  and  beauty. 


COLERIDGE. 


HYMN. 


251 


HYMN. 

FiiOM  the  recesses  of  a lowly  spirit 
My  humble  prayer  ascends  — 0 Father  ! hear  it 
Upsoaring  on  the  wings  of  fear  and  meekness  : 
Forgive  its  weakness. 

I know,  I feel,  how  mean  and  how  unworthy 
The  trembling  sacrifice  I pour  before  Thee ; 

What  can  I offer  in  Thy  presence  holy. 

But  sin  and  folly  ? 

Ibr  in  Thy  sight,  who  every  bosom  viewest. 

Cold  are  our  warmest  vows,  and  vain  our  truest ; 
Thoughts  of  a hurrying  hour,  our  lips  repeat  them. 
Our  hearts  forget  them. 

We  see  Thy  hand  — it  leads  us,  it  supports  us; 
We  hear  Thy  voice— it  counsels  and  it  courts  us ; 
And  then  we  turn  away  — and  still  Thy  kindness 
Pardons  our  blindness* 

And  still  Thy  rain  descends.  Thy  sun  is  glowing, 
Fruits  ripen  round,  flowers  are  beneath  us  blowing, 
And,  as  if  man  were  some  deserving  creature, 

Joys  cover  nature* 

0,  how  long-suffering.  Lord ! but  Thou  delightest 
To  win  with  love  the  wandering  — Thou  invitest, 
By  smiles  of  mercy,  not  by  frowns  or  terrors, 

Man  from  his  errors. 

Who  can  resist  Thy  gentle  call,  appealing 
To^very  generous  thought,  and  grateful  feeling? 


252 


SELECTIONS  IN  POETRY. 


That  voice  paternal,  whispering,  watching  ever  ? — 

My  bosom  ? — never ! 

Father  and  Saviour  ! plant  within  tha,t  bosom 
These  seeds  of  holiness,  and  bid  them  blossom 
In  fragrance  and  in  beauty  bright  and  vernal. 

And  spring  eternal, 

Then  place  them  in  those  everlasting  gardens. 

Where  angels  walk,  and  seraphs  are  the  wardens ; 

Where  every  flower  that  creeps  through  death’s  dark  portal 
Becomes  immortal. 

BOWRING. 


STANZAS. 

Where  are  ye  with  whom  in  life  I started. 

Dear  companions  of  my  golden  days  ? 

Ye  are  dead,  estranged  from  me,  or  parted ; 

Flown,  like  morning  clouds,  a thousand  ways. 

Where  art  thou,  in  youth  my  friend  and  brother  ? 

Yea,  in  soul  my  friend  and  brother  stiU  ! 
Heaven  received  thee,  and  on  earth  none  other 
Can  the  void  in  my  lorn  bosom  fill. 

Where  is  she  whose  looks  were  love  and  gladness  ? 

Love  and  gladness  I no  longer  see ; 

She  is  gone,  and  since  that  hour  of  sadness 
Nature  seems  her  sepulchre  to  me. 

Where  am  I ? Life’s  current  faintly  flowing 
Brings  the  welcome  warning  of  release  ; 

Struck  with  death ; ah ! whither  am  I going  ? 

All  is  well,  — my  spirit  parts  in  peace  ! 


THE  SNOW-STORM. 


THE  SNOW-STORM. 


Announced  by  all  the  trumpets  of  the  sky, 
Arrives  the  snow,  and,  driving  o’er  the  fields. 
Seems  nowhere  to  alight : the  whited  air 
Hides  hills  and  woods,  the  river,  and  the  heaven, 
And  veils  the  farm-house  at  the  garden’s  end. 
The  sled  and  traveller  stopped,  the  courier’s  feet 
Delayed,  all  friends  shut  out,  the  housemates  sit 
Around  the  radiant  fireplace,  enclosed 
In  a tumultuous  privacy  of  storm. 

Come,  see  the  north-wind’s  masonry ! 

Out  of  an  unseen  quarry  evermore 
Furnished  with  tile,  the  fierce  artificer 
Curves  his  white  bastions  with  projected  roof 
Found  every  windward  stake,  or  tree,  or  door. 
Speeding,  the  myriad-handed,  his  wild  work 
So  fanciful,  so  savage,  naught  cares  he 
For  number  or  proportion.  Mockingly 
On  coop  or  kennel  he  hangs  Parian  wreaths  ; 

A swan-like  form  invests  the  hidden  thorn ; 

Fills  up  the  farmer’s  lane  from  wall  to  wall, 
Maugre  the  farmer’s  sighs ; and,  at  the  gate, 

A tapering  turret  overtops  the  work  : 


254 


SELECTIONS  IN  POETRY. 


And  when  his  hours  are  numbered,  and  the  world 
Is  all  his  own,  retiring,  as  he  were  not. 

Leaves,  when  the  sun  appears,  astonished  art 
To  mimic  in  slow  structures,  stone  by  stone, 

Built  in  an  age,  the  mad  w^ind’s  night  work. 

The  frolic  architecture  of  the  snow. 

EMERSON. 


THE  BELVIDERE  AI^OLLO. 

Heard  ye  the  arrow  hurtle  in  the  sky  ? 

Heard  ye  the  dragon  monster’s  deathful  cry  ? 

In  settled  majesty  of  calm  disdain. 

Proud  of  his  might,  yet  scornful  of  the  slain. 

The  heavenly  Archer  stands,^  — no  human  birth , 

No  perishable  denizen  of  earth ; 

Youth  blooms  immortal  in  his  beardless  face, 

A God  in  strength,  with  more  than  godlike  grace  ; 

All,  all  divine,  — no  struggling  muscle  glows, 

Through  heaving  vein  no  mantling  life-blood  flows, 

But,  animate  with  deity  alone. 

In  deathless  glory  lives  the  breathing  stone. 

Bright  kindling  with  a conqueror’s  stern  delight. 

His  keen  eye  tracks  the  arrow’s  fateful  flight ; 

Burns  his  indignant  cheek  with  vengeful  fire. 

And  his  lip  quivers  with  insulting  ire  : 

Firm  fixed  his  tread,  yet  light,  as  when  on  high 
He  walks  the  impalpable  and  pathless  sky  ; 

The  rich  luxuriance  of  his  hair,  confined 
In  graceful  ringlets,  wantons  on  the  wind, 

* The  Apollo  is  in  the  act  of  watching  the  arrow  with  which  he  slew 
the  serpent  Python. 


THE  BELVIDERE  APOLLO. 


255 


That  lifts  in  sport  his  mantle’s  drooping  fold, 

Proud  to  display  that  form  of  faultless  mould. 

Mighty  Ephesian ! ^ with  an  eagle’s  flight 
Thy  proud  soul  mounted  through  the  fields  of  light, 
Viewed  the  bright  concave  of  Heaven’s  blest  abode. 
And  the  cold  marble  leapt  to  life  a God  : 

Contagious  awe  through  breathless  myriads  ran, 

And  nations  bowed  before  the  work  of  man. 

For  mild  he  seemed,  as  in  Elysian  bowers, 

Wasting  in  careless  ease  the  joyous  hours ; 

Haughty,  as  bards  have  sung,  with  princely  sway 
Curbing  the  fierce^  flame-breathing  steeds  of  day  ; 
Beauteous  as  vision  seen  in  dreamy  sleep 
By  holy  maid  on  Delphi’s  haunted  steep, 

’Mid  the  dim  twilight  of  the  laurel  grove. 

Too  fair  to  worship,  too  divine  to  love  ! 

Yet  on  that  form,  in  wild,  delirious  trance. 

With  more  than-  reverence  gazed  the  Maid  of  France. 
Day  after  day  ihe  love-sick  dreamer  stood 
With  him  alone,  nor  thought  it  solitude  ! 

To  cherish  grief,  her  last,  her  dearest  care, 

Her  one  fond  hope  — to  perish  of  despair. 

Oft  as  the  shiftmg  light  her  sight  beguiled, 

Blushing  she  shrank,  and  thought  the  marble  smiled 
Oft  breathless  listening  heard,  or  seemed  to  hear, 

A voice  of  music  melt  upon  her  ear. 

Slowly  she  waned,  and,  cold  and  senseless  grown. 
Closed  her  dim  eyes,  herself  benumbed  to  stone. 

Yet  love  in  death  a sickly  strength  supplied : 

Once  more  she  gazed,  then  feebly  smiled  and  died.t 

MILMAN. 

* Agasias  of  Ephesus. 

t The  foregoing  fact  is  related  in  the  work  of  M.  Pinal  on  Insanity 


256 


SELECTIONS  IN  POETRY. 


BOOK  OF  THE  WORLD. 

Of  this  fair  volume  which  we  “ World  ” do  name, 

If  we  the  sheets  and  leaves  could  turn  with  care, 

Of  Him  who  it  corrects,  and  did  it  frame, 

We  clear  might  read  the  art  and  wisdom  rare ; 

Find  out  His  power,  — which  wildest  powers  doth  tame; 
His  providence,  — extending  everywhere ; 

His  justice,  — wliich  proud  rebels  doth  not  spare  ; 

In  every  page,  — no  period  of  the  same  ! 

But  silly  we,  like  foolish  children,  rest 
Well  pleased  with  colored  vellum,  leaves  of  gold. 

Fair,  dangling  ribands,  leaving  what  is  best. 

On  the  great  Writer’s  sense  ne’er  taking  hold  ; 

Or,  if  by  chance  we  stay  our  minds  on  aught, 

It  is  some  picture  on  the  margin  wrought. 

DRUMMOND. 


SIN. 

Lord,  with  what  care  hast  thou  begirt  us  round ! 

Parents  first  season  us ; then  schoolmasters 
Deliver  us  to  laws ; they  send  us  bound 
To  rules  of  reason,  holy  messengers,  — 

Pulpits  and  Sundays ; sorrow  dogging  sin ; 

Afflictions  sorted ; anguish  of  all  sizes  ; 

Fine  nets  and  stratagems  to  catch  us  in ; 

Bibles  laid  open ; millions  of  surprises ; 

Blessings  beforehand  ; ties  of  gratefulness  ; 

The  sound  of  glory  ringing  in  our  ears  ; 
Without,  our  shame  ; within,  our  consciences  ; 
Angels  and  grace ; eternal  hopes  and  fears ; — 

Yet  all  these  fences,  and  their  whole  array. 

One  cunning  bosom-sin  blows  quite  away. 


HERBERT. 


ELIJAH’S  INTERYIEW. 


257 


ELIJAH’S  INTERVIEW. 

On  Horeb’s  rock  the  prophet  stood,  — 

The  Lord  before  him  passed : 

A hurricane  in  angry  mood 
Swept  by  him  strong  and  fast ; 

The  forest  fell  before  its  force, 

The  rocks  were  shivered  in  its  course  ; — 
God  was  not  in  the  blast. 

’T  was  but  the  whirlwind  of  his  breath, 

Announcing  danger,  wreck,  and  death. 

It  ceased.  The  air  grew  mute,  — a cloud 
Came,  muffling  up  the  sun  ; 

' When,  through  the  mountain,  deep  and  loud, 
An  earthquake  thundered  on  : 

The  frighted  eagle  sprang  in  air. 

The  wolf  ran  howling  from  his  lair ; — 

God  was  not  in  the  storm. 

’T  was  but  the  rolling  of  His  car. 

The  tramping  of  His  steed  from  far. 

’T  was  still  again,  — and  Nature  stood 
And  calmed  her  ruffled  frame ; 

When  swift  from  heaven  a fiery  fiood 
To  earth  devouring  came  : 

Down  to  the  depth  the  ocean  fled. 

The  sickening  sun  looked  wan  and  dead,  — 
Yet  God  filled  not  the  flame. 

’T  was  but  the  terror  of  His  eye. 

That  lightened  through  the  troubled  sky. 

At  last  a voice  all  still  and  small 
Rose  sweetly  on  the  ear, 

Q 


258 


SELECTIONS  IN  POETRY. 


Yet  rose  so  shrill  and  clear,  that  all 
In  heaven  and  earth  might  hear. 

It  spoke  of  peace,  it  spoke  of  love. 

It  spoke  as  angels  speak  above. 

For  God  himself  was  there  ; — 

For  0 ! it  was  a Father's  voice 
That  bade  the  trembling  heart  rejoice. 

CAMPBELL. 


THE  MARIGOLD. 

When  with  a serious  musing  I behold 
The  graceful  and  obsequious  marigold. 

How  duly,  every  morning,  she  displays 
Her  open  breast,  when  Titan  spreads  his  rays ; 

How  she  observes  him  in  his  daily  walk, 

Still  bending  towards  him  her  small,  slender  stalk ; 
How,  when  he  down  declines,  she  droops  and  mourns, 
Bedewed  as ’t  were  with  tears,  till  he  returns ; 

And  how  she  veils  her  flowers  when  he  is  gone. 

As  if  she  scorned  to  be  lookM  on 
By  an  inferior  eye,  or  did  contemn 
To  wait  upon  a meaner  light  than  him  ; — 

When  I thus  meditate,  methinks  the  flowers 
Have  spirits  far  more  generous  than  ours. 

And  give  us  fair  examples,  to  despise 
The  servile  fawnings  and  idolatries 
Wherewith  we  court  these  earthly  things  below. 
Which  merit  not  the  service  we  bestow. 

But,  0 my  God  ! though  grovelling  I appear 
Upon  the  ground,  and  have  a rooting  here, 

Which  hauls  me  downward,  yet  in  my  desire 
To  that  which  is  above  me  I aspire. 


HYMN  TO  THE  STARS. 


259 


And  all  my  best  affections  I profess 
To  Him  that  is  the  Son  of  Righteousness. 

0,  keep  the  morning  of  his  incarnation, 

The  burning  noontide  of  his  bitter  passion, 

The  night  of  his  descending,  and  the  height 
Of  his  ascension,  ever  in  my  sight,  — 

That,  imitating  him  in  what  I may, 

I never  follow  an  inferior  way  ! 

GEORGE  WITHER. 


HYMN  TO  THE  STARS. 

Ay,  there  ye  shine,  and  there  have  shone, 

In  one  eternal  “ hour  of  prime,” 

Each  rolling,  burningly,  alone, 

Through  boundless  space  and  countless  time. 

Ay,  there  ye  shine  ! the  golden  dews 
That  pave  the  realms  by  seraphs  trod ; 

Tliere,  through  yon  echoing  vault,  diffuse 
The  song  of  choral  worlds  to  God. 

Ye  visible  spirits  ! bright  as  erst 

Young  Eden’s  birth-night  saw  ye  shine. 

On  all  her  flowers  and  fountains  first, 

Yet  sparkling  from  the  hand  divine  ; 

Yes,  bright  as  then  ye  smiled,  to  catch 
The  music  of  a sphere  so  fair. 

Ye  hold  your  high,  imm.ortal  watch, 

And  gird  your  God’s  pavilion  there. 

Gold  frets  to  dust,  — yet,  there  ye  are ; 

Time  rots  the  diamond,  — there  ye  roll. 


260 


SELECTIONS  IN  POETRY. 


In  primal  light,  as.  if  each  star 
Enshrined  an  everlasting  soul ! 

And  does  it  not,  — since  your  bright  throngs 
One  all-enlightening  Spirit  own. 

Praised  there  by  pure,  sidereal  tongues, 
Eternal,  glorious,  blessed,  alone  ? 

Could  man  but  see  what  ye  have  seen. 

Unfold  a while  the  shrouded  past. 

From  all  that  is,  to  what  has  been,  — 

The  glance  how  rich,  the  range  how  vast ! 
The  birth  of  time,  the  rise,  the  fall 
Of  empires,  myriads,  ages  flown. 

Thrones,  cities,  tongues,  arts,  worships,  — all 
The  things  whose  echoes  are  not  gone  ! 

Ye  saw  rapt  Zoroaster  send 

His  soul  into  your  mystic  reign ; 

Ye  saw  the  adoring  Sabian  bend. 

The  living  hills  his  mighty  fane  ! 

Beneath  the  blue  and  beaming  sky 
He  worshipped  at  your  lofty  shrine, 

And  deemed  he  saw,  with  gifted  eye, 

The  Godhead  in  His  works  divine. 

And  there  ye  shine,  as  if  to  mock 
The  children  of  a mortal  sire ; 

The  storm,  the  bolt,  the  earthquake’s  shock. 
The  red  volcano’s  cataract  fire. 

Drought,  famine,  plague,  and  blood,  and  flame. 
All  nature’s  ills,  and  life’s  worse  woes. 

Are  naught  to  you ; ye  smile  the  same. 

And  scorn  alike  their  dawn  and  close. 


THERE  IS  A TONGUE  IN  EVERY  LEAF. 


261 


Ay,  there  ye  roll,  — emblems  sublime 
Of  Him,  whose  spirit  o’er  us  moves, 
Beyond  the  clouds  of  grief  and  crime, 
Still  shining  on  the  world  He  loves : 
Nor  is  one  scene  to  mortals  given. 

That  more  divides  the  soul  and  sod. 
Than  yon  proud  heraldry  of  Heaven, 
Yon  burning  blazonry  of  God  ! 


“TRERE  IS  A TONGUE  IN  EVERY  LEAF.” 

There  is  a tongue  in  every  leaf, 

A voice  in  every  rill ; 

A voice  that  speaketh  everywhere,  — 

In  flood  and  fire,  through  earth  and  air,  — 
A tongue  that ’s  never  still. 

’T  is  the  great  Spirit,  wide  diffused 
Through  everything  we  see. 

That  with  our  spirits  communeth 
Of  things  mysterious,  — life  and  death. 
Time  and  eternity. 

I see  Him  in  the  blazing  sun. 

And  in  the  thunder-cloud ; 

I hear  Him  in  the  mighty  roar 
That  rushes  through  the  forest  hoar 
When  winds  are  piping  loud. 

I see  Him,  hear  Him,  everywhere  ; 

In  all  things,  — darkness,  light, 

Silence,  and  sound ; but,  most  of  all. 

When  slumber’s  dusky  curtains  fall. 

At  the  dead  hour  of  night. 


262 


SELECTIONS  IN  POETRY. 


I feel  Him  in  the  silent  dews 
By  grateful  earth  betrayed  ; 

I feel  Him  in  the  gentle  showers, 

The  soft  south  wind,  the  breath  of  flowers. 
The  sunshine  and  the  shade. 

And  yet  — ungrateful  that  I am  ! — 

I ’ve  turned  in  sullen  mood 
From  all  these  things,  whereof  He  said, 
When  the  great  work  was  finished. 

That  they  were  “ very  good  ” ! 

My  sadness  on  the  fairest  things 
Fell  like  unwholesome  dew ; 

The  darkness  that  encompassed  me, 

The  gloom  I felt  so  palpably. 

Mine  own  dark  spirit  threw. 

Yet  He  was  patient,  slow  to  wrath, 
Though  every  day  provoked 
By  selfish,  pining  discontent. 

Acceptance  cold,  or  negligent. 

And  promises  revoked. 

And  still  the  same  rich  feast  was  spread 
For  my  insensate  heart.  — 

Not  always  so;  I woke  again. 

To  join  creation’s  rapturous  strain ; 

“ 0 Lord  ! how  good  Thou  art ! ” 

The  clouds  drew  up,  the  shadows  fled. 

The  glorious  sun  broke  out ; 

And  love,  and  hope,  and  gratitude. 
Dispelled  that  miserable  mood 
Of  darkness  and  of  doubt. 


MRS.  SOUTHEY. 


ADDRESS  TO  POETS. 


263 


ADDKESS  TO  POETS. 

Ye  whose  hearts  are  beating  high 
With  the  pulse  of  poesy, 

Heirs  of  more  than  royal  race, 

Framed  by  Heaven’s  peculiar  grace, 
God’s  own  work  to  do  on  earth 
(If  the  word  be  not  too  bold). 

Giving  virtue  a new  birth. 

And  a life  that  ne’er  grows  old,  — 

Sovereign  masters  of  all  hearts  ! 

Know  ye  who  hath  set  your  parts  ? 

He,  who  gave  you  breath  to  sing, 

By  whose  strength  ye  sweep  the  string. 
He  hath  chosen  you  to  lead 
His  hosannas  here  below ; — 

Mount,  and  claim  your  glorious  meed ! 
Linger  not  with  sin  and  woe  ! 

But,  if  ye  should  hold  your  peace. 

Deem  not  that  the  song  would  cease ; 
Angels  round  His  glory-throne. 

Stars,  His  guiding  hand  that  ov>m. 
Flowers,  that  grow  beneath  our  feet. 
Stones,  in  earth’s  dark  womb  that  rest 
High  and  low  in  choir  shall  meet. 

Ere  His  name  shall  be  unblest. 

Lord,  by  every  minstrel  tongue 
Be  thy  praise  so  duly  sung. 

That  thine  angel’s  harps  may  ne’er 
Fail  to  find  fit  echoing  here  ! 


( 


4 


264 


SELECTIONS  IN  POETRY. 


We,  the  while,  of  meaner  birth, 

Who  in  that  divinest  spell 
Dare  not  hope  to  join  on  earth, 

Give  us  grace  to  listen  well ! 

But  should  thankless  silence  seal 
Lips  that  might  half  heaven  reveal, 
Should  bards  in  idol-hymns  profane 
The  sacred  soul-enthralling  strain 
(As  in  this  bad  world  below 

Noblest  things  find  vilest  using). 

Then  thy  power  and  mercy  show. 

In  vile  things  noble  breath  infusing. 

Then  waken  into  sound  divine 
The  very  pavement  of  thy  shrine. 

Till  we,  like  heaven’s  star-sprinkled  floor. 
Faintly  give  back  what  we  adore. 
Childlike  though  the  voices  be. 

And  untunable  the  parts. 

Thou  wilt  own  the  minstrelsy. 

If  it  flow  from  childlike  hearts. 

KEBLE. 


EAELY  RISING  AND  PRAYER. 

When  first  thy  eyes  unveil,  give  thy  soul  leave 
To  do  the  like ; our  bodies  but  forerun 
The  spirit’s  duty : true  hearts  spread  and  heave 
Unto  their  God,  as  flowers  do  to  the  sun ; 

Give  him  thy  first  thoughts,  then,  — so  shalt  thou  keep 
Him  company  all  day,  and  in  him  sleep. 


EARLY  RISING  AND  PRAYER. 


265 


Yet  never  sleep,  the  sun  up ; prayer  should 
Dawn  with  the  day : there  are  set,  awful  hours 
’Twixt  heaven  and  us ; the  manna  was  not  good 
After  sun-rising ; far  day  sullies  flowers : 

Rise  to  prevent  the  sun  ; sleep  doth  sins  glut. 

And  heaven’s  gate  opens  when  the  world’s  is  shut. 

Walk  with  thy  fellow-creatures : note  the  hush 
And  whisperings  amongst  them.  Not  a spring 
Or  leaf  but  hath  his  morning  hymn ; each  bush 
And  oak  doth  know  I am.  Can’st  thou  not  sing  ? 
0,  leave  thy  cares  and  follies ! go  this  way. 

And  thou  art  sure  to  prosper  all  the  day. 

Serve  God  before  the  world ; let  him  not  go 
Until  thou  hast  a blessing ; then  resign 
The  whole  unto  him,  and  remember  who 

Prevailed  by  wrestling  ere  the  sun  did  shine : 

Pour  oil  upon  the  stones,  weep  for  thy  sin. 

Then  journey  on,  and  have  an  eye  to  heaven. 

Mornings  are  mysteries ; the  first  world’s  youth, 
Man’s  resurrection,  and  the  future’s  bud. 

Shroud  in  their  births ; the  crown  of  life,  light,  truth. 
Is  styled  their  star  ; the  stone  and  hidden  food : 
Three  blessings  wait  upon  them,  two  of  which 
Should  move,  — they  make  us  holy,  happy,  rich. 

When  the  world ’s  up,  and  every  swarm  abroad. 

Keep  well  thy  temper ; mix  not  with  each  clay  : 
Despatch  necessities ; life  hath  a load 

Which  must  be  carried  on,  and  safely  may : 

Yet  keep  those  cares  without  thee;  let  the  heart 
Be  God’s  alone,  and  choose  the  better  part. 

12  HENRY  VAUGHAN. 


266 


SELECTIONS  IN  POETRY. 


THE  BUTTERFLY. 

Beautiful  creature ! I have  been 
Moments  uncounted  watching  thee, 
Now  flitting  round  the  foliage  green 
Of  yonder  dark,  embowering  tree  ; 
And  now  again,  in  frolic  glee, 
Hovering  around  those  opening  flowers, ' 
Happy  as  Nature’s  child  should  be. 
Born  to  enjoy  her  loveliest  bowers. 

And  I have  gazed  upon  thy  flight. 

Till  feelings  I can  scarce  define. 
Awakened  by  so  fair  a sight. 

With  desultory  thoughts  combine,  — 
Not  to  induce  me  to  repine, 

Or  envy  thee  thy  happiness ; 

But  from  a lot  so  bright  as  thine 
To  borrow  musings  born  to  bless. 


THE  BTJTTEIIFLY. 


267 


Then  thou  delightful  creature,  who 
Wert  yesterday  a sightless  worm, 
Becom’st  a symbol  fair  and  true 
Of  hopes  that  own  no  mortal  term ; 

In  thy  proud  change  we  see  the  germ 
Of  man’s  sublimer  destiny, 

While  holiest  oracles  confirm 
The  type  of  immortality ! 

A change  more  glorious  far  than  thine. 
E’en  I,  thy  fellow-worm,  may  know. 
When  this  exhausted  frame  of  mine 
Down  to  its  kindred  dust  shall  go ; 
W^hen  the  anxiety  and  woe 
Of  being’s  embryo  state  shall  seem 
Like  phantoms  flitting  to  and  fro 
In  some  confused  and  feverish  dream. 

For  thee,  who  flittest  gayly  now. 

With  all  thy  nature  asks  supplied, 

A few  brief  summer  days,  and  thou 
No  more  amid  these  haunts  shall  glide. 
As  hope’s  fair  herald,  in  thy  pride 
The  sylph-like  genius  of  the  scene. 

But,  sunk  in  dark  oblivion’s  tide, 

Shalt  be  as  thou  hadst  never  been  ! 

While  man’s  immortal  part,  when  time 
Shall  set  the  chainless  spirit  free. 

May  seek  a brighter,  happier  clime 
Than  fancy  e’er  could  feign  for  thee ; 
Though  bright  her  fairy  bowers  may  be, 
Yet  brief  as  bright  their  beauties  fade. 
And  sad  experience  mourns  to  see 
Each  gourd  hope  trusted  in,  decayed. 


SELECTIONS  IN  POETRY. 


Sport  on,  then,  lovely  summer  fly. 

With  whom  began  my  votive  strain  ’ 

Yet  purer  joys  their  hopes  supply. 

Who,  by  faith’s  alchemy,  obtain 
Comfort  in  sorrow,  bliss  in  pain. 

Freedom  in  bondage,  light  in  gloom. 

Through  earthly  losses  heavenly  gain. 

And  life  immortal  through  the  tomb. 

BERNARD  BARTON. 


AN  APOLOGUE. 

’T  WAS  eight  o’clock,  and  near  the  fire 
My  ruddy  little  boy  was  seated,  ^ 

And  with  the  titles  of  a sire 
My  ears  expected  to  be  greeted. 

But  vain  the  thought ! by  sleep  oppressed. 
No  father  there  the  child  descried ; 

His  head  reclined  upon  his  breast. 

Or,  nodding,  rolled  from  side  to  side. 

I 

“ Let  this  young  rogue  be  sent  to  bed ! ” 
More  I had  scarce  had  time  to  say. 

When  the  poor  urchin  raised  his  head, 

To  beg  that  he  might  longer  stay. 

Refused,  away  his  steps  he  bent. 

With  tearful  eye  and  aching  heart, 

But  claimed  his  playthings  ere  he  went. 
And  took  up  stairs  his  horse  and  cart. 

Still  for  delay,  though  oft  denied, 

He  pleaded,  wildly  craved  the  boon ; 


AN  APOLOGUE. 


269 


Though  past  his  usual  hour,  he  cried 
At  being  sent  to  bed  so  soon ! 

If  stern  to  him,  his  grief  I shared ; 

(Unmoved  who  sees  his  offspring  weep^) 
Of  soothing  him  I half  despaired ; 

When  all  his  cares  were  lost  in  sleep. 

“ Alas,  poor  infant ! ” I exclaimed, 

“ Thy  father  blushes  now  to  scan, 

In  all  that  he  so  lately  blamed. 

The  follies  and  the  fears  of  man. 

The  vain  regret,  the  anguish  brief, 

Which  thou  hast  known,  sent  up  to  bed, 
Portrays  of  man  the  idle  grief. 

When  doomed  to  slumber  with  the  dead.  ” 

And  more,  I thought,  when  up  the  stairs, 
With  longing,  lingering  looks  he  crept. 

To  mark  of  man  the  childish  cares. 

His  playthings  carefully  he  kept ! 

Thus  mortals  on  life’s  later  stage, 

When  nature  claims  their  forfeit  breath, 
Still  grasp  at  wealth,  in  pain  and  age, 

And  cling  to  golden  toys  in  death ! ” 

’Tis  morn,  and  see,  my  smiling  boy 
Awakes  to  hail  returning  light ; 

To  fearless  laughter,  boundless  joy ! 

Forgot  the  tears  of  yesternight ! 

Thus  shall  not  man  forget  his  woe. 

Survive  of  age  and  death  the  gloom. 

Smile  at  the  cares  he  knew  below, 

And,  renovated,  burst  the  tomb  ? 

T.  GASPRY. 


270 


SELECTIONS  IN  POETRY. 


PROVIDENCE. 

Just  as  a mother,  with  sweet  pious  face, 

Yearns  towards  her  little  children  from  her  seat. 
Gives  one  a kiss,  another  an  embrace. 

Takes  this  upon  her  knees,  that  on  her  feet ; 

And  while  from  actions,  looks,  complaints,  pretences. 
She  learns  their  feelings  and  their  various  will. 

To  this  a look,  to  that  a word,  dispenses. 

And,  whether  stern  or  smiling,  loves  them  still ; — 
So  Providence  for  us,  high,  infinite. 

Makes  our  necessities  its  watchful  task. 

Hearkens  to  all  our  prayers,  helps  all  our  wants, 
And,  even  if  it  denies  what  seems  our  right. 

Either  denies  because  T would  have  us  ask. 

Or  seems  but  to  deny,  or  in  denying  grants. 

LEIGH  HUNT. 


THE  HOUR  OF  DEATH. 

Leaves  have  their  time  to  fall. 

And  flowers  to  wither  at  the  north-wind’s  breath. 
And  stars  to  set,  — but  all, 

Thou  hast  all  seasons  for  thine  own,  0 Death  ! 

Day  is  for  mortal  care. 

Eve  for  glad  meetings  round  the  joyous  hearth, 

Night  for  the  dreams  of  sleep,  the  voice  of  prayer ; 
But  all  for  thee,  thou  mightiest  of  the  earth ! 

The  banquet  hath  its  hour. 

Its  feverish  hour  of  mirth,  and  song,  and  wine  ; 

There  comes  a day  for  grief’s  o’erwhelming  power, 
A time  for  softer  tears,  — but  all  are  thine  ! 


THE  HOUR  OP  DEATH. 


271 


Youth  and  the  opening  rose 
May  look  like  things  too  glorious  for  decay, 

And  smile  at  thee  ! — but  thou  art  not  of  those 
That  wait  the  ripened  bloom  to  seize  their  prey. 

Leaves  have  their  time  to  fall, 

And  flowers  to  wither  at  the  north-wind’s  breath. 

And  stars  to  set,  — but  all. 

Thou  hast  all  seasons  for  thine  own,  0 Death ! 

We  know  when  moons  shall  wane. 

When  summer-birds  from  far  shall  cross  the  sea. 

When  autumn’s  hue  shall  tinge  the  golden  grain  ; 
But  who  shall  teach  us  when  to  look  for  thee  ? 

Is  it  when  spring’s  first  gale 
Comes  forth  to  whisper  where  the  violets  lie  ? 

Is  it  when  roses  in  our  paths  grow  pale  ? — 

They  have  one  season,  — all  are  ours  to  die  ! 

Thou  art  where  billows  foam. 

Thou  art  where  music  melts  upon  the  air. 

Thou  art  around  us  in  our  peaceful  home. 

And  the  world  calls  us  forth,  — and  thou  art  there. 

Thou  art  where  friend  meets  friend. 

Beneath  the  shadow  of  the  elm  to  rest; 

Thou  art  where  foe  meets  foe,  and  trumpets  rend 
The  skies,  and  swords  beat  down  the  princely  crest. 

Leaves  have  their  time  to  fall. 

And  flowers  to  wither  at  the  north-wind’s  breath. 

And  stars  to  set,  — but  all. 

Thou  hast  all  seasons  for  thine  own,  0 Death  ! 


MRS.  HEMANS. 


272 


SELECTIONS  IN  POETRY. 


ADDRESS  TO  A WILD  DEER. 

Magnificent  creature  ! so  stately  and  bright ! 

In  the  pride  of  thy  spirit  pursuing  thy  flight,  — 

For  what  hath  the  child  of  the  desert  to  dread, 

Wafting  up  his  own  mountains  that  far-beaming  head. 

Or  borne  like  a whirlwind  down  on  the  vale  ? — 

Hail ! King  of  the  wild  and  the  beautiful ! — hail ! 

Hail,  Idol  divine  ! whom  Nature  hath  borne 
O’er  a hundred  hi  11 -tops,  since  the  mists  of  the  morn. 
Whom  the  pilgrim  lone  wandering  on  mountain  and  moor. 
As  the  vision  glides  by  him,  may  blameless  adore; 

For  the  joy  of  the  happy,  the  strength  of  the  free, 

Are  spread  in  a garment  of  glory  o’er  thee. 

Up  ! up  to  yon  cliff,  like  a king  to  his  throne ! 

O’er  the  black  silent  forest  piled  lofty  and  lone  — 

A throne  which  the  eagle  is  glad  to  resign 
Unto  footsteps  so  fleet  and  so  fearless  as  thine. 

There  the  bright  heather  springs  up  in  love  of  thy  breast  — 
Lo ! the  clouds  in  the  depth  of  the  sky  are  at  rest ; 

And  the  race  of  the  wild  winds  is  o’er  on  the  hill ! 

In  the  hush  of  the  mountains,  ye  antlers,  lie  still  — 
Though  your  branches  now  toss  in  the  storm  of  delight. 
Like  the  arms  of  the  pine  on  your  shelterless  height. 

One  moment,  thou  bright  Apparition,  delay ! 

Then  melt  o’er  the  crags,  like  the  sun  from  the  day. 

Aloft  on  the  weather-gleam,  scorning  the  earth. 

The  wild  spirit  hung  in  majestical  mirth ; 

In  dalliance  with  danger,  he  bounded  in  bliss 
O’er  the  fathomless  gloom  of  each  moaning  abyss ; 

O’er  the  grim  rocks  careering  with  prosperous  motion. 

Like  a ship  by  herself  in  full  sail  o’er  the  ocean ! 


ADDRESS  TO  A WILD  DEER. 


273 


Tlien  proudly  he  turned  ere  he  sunk  to  the  dell, 

And  shook  from  his  forehead  a haughty  farewell, 

While  his  horns  in  a crescent  of  radiance  shone. 

Like  a flag  burning  bright  when  the  vessel  is  gone. 

The  ship  of  the  desert  hath  passed  on  the  wind. 

And  left  the  dark  ocean  of  mountains  behind  ! 

But  my  spirit  will  travel  wherever  she  flee. 

And  behold  her  in  pomp,  o’er  the  rim  of  the  sea, 

Her  voyage  pursue,  till  her  anchor  be  cast 
In  some  clifi-girdled  haven  of  beauty,  at  last.  . 

What  lonely  magnificence  stretches  around ! 

Each  sight  how  sublime.!  and  how  awful  each  sound ! 

All  hushed  and  serene,  as  a region  of  dreams. 

The  mountains  repose  ’mid  the  roar  of  the  streams. 

Their  glens  of  black  umbrage  by  cataracts  riven. 

But  calm  their  blue  tops  in  the  beauty  of  heaven. 

Here  the  glory  of  nature  hath  nothing  to  fear,  — 

Ay ! Time  the  destroyer  in  power  hath  been  here ; 

And  the  forest  that  hung  on  yon  mountain  so  high. 

Like  a black  thunder-cloud  on  the  arch  of  the  sky. 

Hath  gone,  like  that  cloud  when  the  tempest  came  by. 
Deep  sunk  in  the  black  moor,  all  worn  and  decayed. 
Where  the  floods  have  been  raging  the  limbs  are  displayed 
Of  the  pine  tree  and  oak  sleeping  vast  in  the  gloom, 

The  kings  of  the  forest  disturbed  in  their  tomb. 

E’en  now,  in  the  pomp  of  their  prime,  I behold 
O’erhanging  the  desert  the  forests  of  old  ! 

So  gorgeous  their  verdure,  so  solemn  their  shade. 

Like  the  heavens  above  them,  they  never  may  fade. 

The  sunlight  is  on  them  — in  silence  they  sleep  — 

12^  R 


i274 


SELECTIONS  IN  POETRY. 


A glimmering  glow,  like  the  breast  of  the  deep, 

When  the  billows  scarce  heave  in  the  calmness  of  morn. 

Down  the  pass  of  Glen-Etive  the  tempest  is  borne. 

And  the  hill-side  is  swinging,  and  roars  with  a sound 
In  the  heart  of  the  forest  embosomed  profound. 

Till  all  in  a moment  the  tumult  is  o’er. 

And  the  mountain  of  thunder  is  still  as  the  shore 
When  the  sea  is  at  ebb ; not  a leaf  or  a breath 
To  disturb  the  wild  solitude,  steadfast  as  death ! 

From  his  eyrie  the  eagle  hath  soared  with  a scream. 

And  I wake  on  the  edge  of  the  cliff  from  my  dream  ; — 
Where  now  is  the  light  of  thy  far-beaming  brow  ? 

Fleet  son  of  the  wilderness ! where  art  thou  now  ? 

Again  o’er  yon  crag  thou  return’st  to  my  sight. 

Like  the  horns  of  the  moon  from  a cloud  of  the  night ! 
Serene  on  thy  travel  as  soul  in  a dream. 

Thou  needest  no  bridge  o’er  the  rush  of  the  stream. 

With  thy  presence  the  pine-grove  is  filled,  as  with  light. 
And  the  caves,  as  thou  passest,  one  moment  are  bright. 
Through  the  arch  of  the  rainbow  that  lies  on  the  rock, 
’Mid  the  mist  stealing  up  from  the  cataract’s  shock. 

Thou  fling’st  thy  bold  beauty,  exulting  and  free. 

O’er  a pit  of  grim  blackness,  that  roars  like  the  sea ! 

His  voyage  is  o’er ! As  if  struck  by  a spell. 

He  motionless  stands  in  the  hush  of  the  dell ; 

There  softly  and  slowly  sinks  down  on  his  breast. 

In  the  midst  of  his  pastime  enamored  of  rest. 

A stream  in  a clear  pool  that  endeth  his  race, 

A dancing  ray  chained  to  one  sunshiny  place, 

A cloud  by  the  winds  to  calm  solitude  driven, 

A hurricane  dead  in  the  silence  of  heaven  ! 


WILSON. 


THE  LAST  MAN. 


275 


THE  LAST  MAH. 

All  worldly  shapes  shall  melt  in  gloom, 
The  Sun  himself  must  die, 

Before  this  mortal  shall  assume 
Its  immortality ! 

I saw  a vision  in  my  sleep, 

That  gave  my  spirit  strength  to  sweep 
Adown  the  gulf  of  Time ! 

I saw  the  last  of  human  mould. 

That  shall  creation’s  death  behold. 

As  Adam  saw  her  prime ! 

The  Sun’s  eye  had  a sickly  glare. 

The  Earth  with  age  was  wan. 

The  skeletons  of  nations  were 
Around  that  lonely  man ! 

Some  had  expired  in  fight,  — the  brands 
Still  rested  in  their  bony  hands,  — 

In  plague  and  famine  some  ! 

Earth’s  cities  had  no  sound  nor  tread  ; 

And  ships  were  drifting  with  the  dead 
To  shores  where  all  was  dumb ! 

Yet,  prophet-like,  that  lone  one  stood. 

With  dauntless  words  and  high. 

That  shook  the  sere  leaves  from  the  wood, 
As  if  a storm  passed  by ; — 

Saying,  We  are  twins  in  death,  proud  Sun  ! 
Thy  face  is  cold,  thy  race  is  run, 

’Tis  mercy  bids  thee  go ; 

For  thou  ten  thousand  thousand  years 
Hast  seen  the  tide  of  human  tears, 

That  shall  no  longer  flow. 


276 


SELECTIONS  IN  POETRY. 


What  though  bcneatli  thee  man  put  forth 
His  pomp,  his  pride,  his  skill ; 

And  arts  that  made  fire,  flood  and  earth, 
The  vassals  of  his  will ; 

Yet  mourn  I not  thy  parted  sway. 

Thou  dim,  discrowned  king  of  day ; 

For  all  those  trophied  arts. 

And  triumphs  that  beneath  thee  sprang, 
Healed  not  a passion  or  a pang 
Entailed  on  human  hearts. 

Go  ! let  Oblivion’s  curtain  fall 
Upon  the  stage  of  men. 

Nor  with  thy  rising  beams  recall 
Life’s  tragedy  again. 

Its  piteous  pageants  bring  not  back, 

Nor  waken  flesh  upon  the  rack 
Of  pain  anew  to  writhe, — 

Stretched  in  disease’s  shapes  abhorred, 

Or  mown  in  battle  by  the  sword, 

Like  grass  beneath  the  scythe. 

Even  I am  weary,  in  yon  skies 
To  watcli  thy  fading  fire ; 

Test  of  all  sumless  agonies, 

Behold  not  me  expire  ! 

My  lips  that  speak  thy  dirge  of  death,  — 
Their  rounded  gasp  and  gurgling  breath 
To  see  thou  shaft  not  boast. 

The  eclipse  of  Nature  spreads  my  pall, 
The  majesty  of  Darkness  shall 
Beceive  my  parting  ghost ! 


LINES  WRITTEN  IN  EARLY  SPRING. 


277 


This  spirit  shall  return  to  Him 
That  gave  its  heavenly  spark ; 

Yet  think  not,  Sun,  it  shall  be  dim. 

When  thou  thyself  art  dark ! 

No ! it  shall  live  again,  and  shine 
In  bliss  unknown  to  beams  of  thine. 

By  Him  recalled  to  breath, 

Who  captive  led  captivity. 

Who  robbed  the  grave  of  victory. 

And  took  the  sting  from  Death  ! 

Go,  Sun,  while  Mercy  holds  me  up 
On  nature’s  awful  waste. 

To  drink  this  last  and  bitter  cup 
Of  grief  that  man  shall  taste ; 

Go,  tell  the  night  that  hides  thy  face. 

Thou  saw’st  the  last  of  Adam’s  race. 

On  Earth’s  sepulchral  clod. 

The  darkening  universe  defy 
To  quench  his  immortality, 

Or  shake  his  trust  in  God ! 

CAMPBELL, 


LINES  WRITTEN  IN  EARLY  SPRING. 

I HEARD  a thousand  blended  notes. 

While  in  a grove  I sat  reclined, 

In  that  sweet  mood  when  pleasant  thoughts 
Bring  sad  thoughts  to  the  mind. 

To  her  fair  works  did  Nature  link 

The  human  soul  that  through  me  ran ; 
And  much  it  grieved  my  heart  to  think 
What  man  has  made  of  man. 


278 


SELECTIONS  IN  POETRY. 


Through  primrose  tufts,  in  that  green  bower, 
The  periwinkle  trailed  its  wreaths  ; 

And ’t  is  my  faith  that  every  flower 
Enjoys  the  air  it  breathes. 

The  birds  around  me  hopped  and  played,  — 
Their  thoughts  I cannot  measure. 

But  the  least  motion  which  they  made. 

It  seemed  a thrill  of  pleasure. 

The  budding  twigs  spread  out  their  fan. 

To  catch  the  breezy  air ; 

And  I must  think,  do  all  I can, 

That  there  was  pleasure  there. 

If  this  belief  from  heaven  be  sent, 

If  such  be  Nature’s  holy  plan. 

Have  I not  reason  to  lament 
What  man  has  made  of  man  ? 

WORDSWORTH. 


KHYME  NOT  POETEY. 

Most  men  by  numbers  judge  a poet’s  song. 

And  smooth  or  rough  with  them  is  right  or  wrong ; 
In  the  bright  Muse  though  thousand  charms  conspire, 
Her  voice  is  all  these  tuneful  fools  admire ; 

Who  haunt  Parnassus  but  to  please  the  ear, 

Not  mend  their  minds, — as  some  to  church  repair, 
Not  for  the  doctrine,  but  the  music  there. 

These,  equal  syllables  alone  require, 

Though  oft  the  ear  the  open  vowels  tire. 

While  expletives  their  feeble  aid  do  join. 

And  ten  low  words  oft  creep  in  one  dull  line. 

While  they  ring  round  the  same  unvaried  chimes. 
With  sure  returns  of  still  expected  rhymes ; 


CLOUD-LAND. 


279 


Where’er  you  find  “ the  cooling  western  breeze,” 

In  the  next  line  it  “ whispers  through  the  trees ; ” 

If  crystal  streams  “ with  pleasing  murmurs  creep,” 

The  reader ’s  threatened  (not  in  vain)  with  “ sleep ; ” 
Then,  at  the  last  and  only  couplet,  fraught 
With  some  unmeaning  thing  they  call  a thought, 

A needless  Alexandrine  ends  the  song. 

That,  like  a wounded  snake,  drags  its  slow  length  along. 
Leave  such  to  tune  their  own  dull  rhymes,  and  know 
What ’s  roundly  smooth  or  languishingly  slow, 

And  praise  the  easy  vigor  of  a line. 

Where  Denham’s  strength  and  Waller’s  sweetness  join. 
True  ease  in  writing  comes  from  art,  not  chance, 

As  those  move  easiest  who  have  learned  to  dance. 

POPE. 


CLOUD-LAND. 

0,  IT  is  pleasant,  with  a heart  at  ease. 

Just  after  sunset,  or  by  moonlight  skies, 

To  make  the  shifting  clouds  be  what  you  please. 

Or  let  the  easily-persuaded  eyes 
Own  each  quaint  likeness,  issuing  from  the  mould 
Of  a friend’s  fancy  ; or,  with  head  bent  low. 

And  cheek  aslant,  see  rivers  flow  of  gold 

’Twixt  crimson  banks ; and  then,  a traveller,  go 
From  mount  to  mount  through  Cloud-land,  gorgeous  land ! 

Or,  listening  to  the  tide,  with  closed  sight. 

Be  that  blind  bard,  who,  on  the  Chian  strand, 

By  those  deep  sounds  possessed  with  inward  light, 
Beheld  the  Iliad  and  the  Odyssee 
Bise  to  the  swelling  of  the  voiceful  sea. 


COLERIDGE. 


280 


SELECTIONS  IN  TOETUY. 


THE  SEA-BIRD’S  SONG. 

On  the  deep  is  the  mariner’s  danger, 

On  the  deep  is  the  mariner’s  death ; 
Who,  to  fear  of  the  tempest  a stranger, 
Sees  the  last  bubble  burst  of  his  breath  ? 
’T  is  the  sea-bird,  sea-bird,  sea-bird, 
Lone  looker  on  despair. 

The  sea-bird,  sea-bird,  sea-bird. 

The  only  witness  there. 

Who  watches  their  course,  who  so  mildly 
Careen  to  the  kiss  of  the  breeze  ? 

Who  lists  to  their  shrieks,  who  so  wildly 
Are  clasped  in  the  arms  of  the  seas  ? 

’T  is  the  sea-bird,  sea-bird,  sea-bird. 

Who  hovers  on  high  o’er  the  lover. 

And  her  who  has  clung  to  his  neck  ? 
Whose  wing  is  the  wing  that  can  cover 


EDEN. 


281 


With  its  shadow  the  foundering  wreck  ? 

’T  is  the  sea-bird,  sea-bird,  sea-bird. 

My  eye  in  the  light  of  the  billow. 

My  wing  on  the  wake  of  the  wave, 

I shall  take  to  my  breast,  for  a pillow, 

The  shroud  of  the  fair  and  the  brave. 

I ’m  the  sea-bird,  sea-bird,  sea-bird. 

jMy  foot  on  the  iceberg  has  lighted. 

When  hoarse  the  wild  winds  veer  about ; 

]My  eye,  when  the  bark  is  benighted, 

Sees  the  lamp  of  the  light-house  go  out. 

I ’m  the  sea-bird,  sea-bird,  sea-bird, 

Lone  looker  on  despair ; 

The  sea-bird,  sea-bird,  sea-bird, 

The  only  witness  there ! 

BEAINARD. 


EDEN. 

Southward  through  Eden  went  a river  large ; 

Nor  changed  his  course,  but  through  the  shaggy  hill 
Passed  underneath  ingulfed ; for  God  had  thrown 
That  mountain,  as  his  garden-mound,  high  raised 
Upon  the  rapid  current ; which,  through  veins 
Of  porous  earth  with  kindly  thirst  up-drawn, 

K-ose  a fresh  fountain,  and  with  many  a rill 
Watered  the  garden,  thence  united  fell 
Down  the  steep  glade,  and  met  the  nether  flood, 
Which  from  his  darksome  passage  now  appears ; 

And  now,  divided  into  four  main  streams, 

Kuns  diverse,  wandering  many  a famous  realm 
And  country,  whereof  here  needs  no  account ; 

But  rather  to  tell  how,  if  art  could  tell. 

How  from  that  sapphire  fount  the  crisped  brooks, 


282 


SELECTIONS  IN  POETRY. 


Rolling  on  orient  pearl  and  sands  of  gold, 

With  mazy  error,  under  pendent  shades 
Ran  nectar,  visiting  each  plant,  and  fed 
Flowers  worthy  of  Paradise ; which  not  nice  art 
In  beds  and  curious  knots,  but  Nature  boon 
Poured  forth  profuse  on  hill  and  dale  and  plain. 

Both  where  the  morning  sun  first  warmly  smote 
The  open  field,  and  where  the  unpierccd  shade 
Imbrowned  the  noon-tide  bowers.  Thus  was  this  place 
A happy  rural  seat  of  various  view ; 

Groves  whose  rich  trees  wept  odorous  gums  and  balm ; 
Others  whose  fruit,  burnished  with  golden  rind, 

Hung  amiable,  Hesperian  fables  true, 

If  true,  here  only,  and  of  delicious  taste. 

Betwixt  them  lawns,  or  level  downs,  and  flocks 
Grazing  the  tender  herb,  were  interposed ; 

Or  palmy  hillock,  or  the  flowery  lap 
Of  some  irriguous  valley  spread  her  store  ; 

Flowers  of  all  hue,  and  without  thorn  the  rose. 

Another  side,  umbrageous  grots  and  caves 
Of  cool  recess,  o’er  which  the  mantling  vine 
Lays  forth  her  purple  grape,  and  gently  creeps 
Luxuriant : meanwhile  murmuring  waters  fall 
Down  the  slope  hills,  dispersed,  or  in  a lake, 

That  to  the  fringed  bank  with  myrtle  crowned 
Her  crystal  mirror  holds,  unite  their  streams ; 

The  birds  their  quire  apply ; airs,  vernal  airs. 

Breathing  the  smell  of  field  and  grove,  attune 
The  trembling  leaves ; while  universal  Pan, 

Knit  with  the  Graces  and  the  Hours  in  dance, 

Led  on  the  eternal  spring. 


MILTON. 


LIBERTY.  — THE  BUGLE  SONG. 


283 


LIBERTY. 

Ye  clouds ! that  far  above  me  float  and  pause, 
Whose  pathless  march  no  mortal  may  control ! 

Ye  ocean  waves  ! that,  wheresoe’er  ye  roll, 

Yield  homage  only  to  eternal  laws  ! 

Ye  woods ! that  listen  to  the  night-birds  singing, 
Midway  the  smooth  and  perilous  slope  reclined. 
Save  when  your  own  imperious  branches,  swinging. 
Have  made  a solemn  music  of  the  wind  ! 

Where,  like  a man  beloved  of  God, 

Through  glooms  which  never  woodman  trod, 

How  oft,  pursuing  fancies  holy. 

My  moonlight  way  o’er  flowering  weeds  I wound, 
Inspired,  beyond  the  guess  of  folly, 

By  each  rude  shape,  and  wild,  unconquerable  sound ! 
0 ye  loud  waves ! and  0 ye  forests  high  ! 

And  0 ye  clouds  that  far  above  me  soared ! 

Thou  rising  sun  ! thou  blue  rejoicing  sky ! 

Yea,  everything  that  is  and  will  be  free ! 

Bear  witness  for  me,  wheresoe’er  ye  be. 

With  what  deep  worship  I have  still  adored 
The  spirit  of  divinest  Liberty ! 

COLERIDGE. 


THE  BUGLE  SONG. 

The  splendor  falls  on  castle  walls, 

And  snowy  summits  old  in  story  ; 

The  long  light  shakes  across  the  lakes, 

And  the  wild  cataract  leaps  in  glory ; 

Blow,  bugle,  blow,  set  the  wild  echoes  flying ; 
Blow,  bugle,  answer  echoes,  dying,  dying,  dying. 


1>84 


SELECTIONS  IN  POETRY. 


1 


(),  hark  ! 0,  hear  ! how  thin  and  clear, 

And  thinner,  clearer,  further  going ! 

(3  ! sweet  and  far,  from  cliff  and  scaur. 

The  horns  of  elf-land  faintly  blowing. 

Blow,  let  us  hear  the  purple  glens  replying ; 

Blow,  bugle,  answer  echoes,  dying,  dying,  dying. 

0 love,  they  die  on  yon  rich  sky. 

They  faint  on  hill,  on  field,  on  river  ; 

(3ur  echoes  roll  from  soul  to  soul. 

And  grow  forever,  and  forever. 

Blow,  bugle,  blow,  set  the  wild  echoes  flying ; 

And  answer,  echoes,  answer,  dying,  dying,  dying. 

TENNYSON. 


THE  DISEMBODIED  SPIRIT. 

0,  SACRED  star  of  evening,  tell 
In  what  unseen,  celestial  sphere 

Those  spirits  of  the  perfect  dwell. 

Too  pure  to  rest  in  sadness  here ! 

Koam  they  the  crystal  fields  of  light, 

O’er  paths  by  holy  angels  trod, 

Their  robes  with  heavenly  lustre  bright, 

Their  home  the  paradise  of  God  ? 

Soul  of  the  just ! and  canst  thou  soar 
Amid  those  radiant  spheres  sublime. 

Where  countless  hosts  of  heaven  adore. 

Beyond  the  bounds  of  space  or  time  ? 

And  canst  thou  join  the  sacred  choir. 

Through  heaven’s  high  dome  the  song  to  raise, 


AN  AMERICAN  FOREST  SPRING. 


285 


Where  seraphs  strike  the  golden  lyre, 

In  ever-during  notes  of  praise  ? 

0,  who  would  heed  the  chilling  blast, 

That  flows  o’er  time’s  eventful  sea, 

If  bid  to  hail,  its  perils  past, 

The  bright  wave  of  eternity  ? 

And  who  the  sorrows  would  not  bear 
Of  such  a transient  world  as  this, 

When  Hope  displays,  beyond  its  care. 

So  bright  an  entrance  into  bliss  ? 

PEABODY. 


AN  AMERICAN  FOREST  SPRING. 

Now  fluttering  breeze,  — now  stormy  blast. 
Mild  rain,  then  blustering  snow,  — 
Winter’s  stern  fettering  cold  is  passed. 

But,  sweet  Spring,  where  art  thou  ? 

The  white  cloud  floats  ’mid  smiling  blue. 

The  broad  bright  sunshine’s  golden  hue 
Bathes  the  still  frozen  earth : 

’T  is  changed ! — above,  black  vapors  roll,  — 
We  turn  from  our  expected  stroll. 

And  seek  the  blazing  hearth. 

Hark  — that  sweet  carol ! with  delight 
W e leave  the  stifling  room,  — 

The  little  blue-bird  meets  our  sight,  — 
Spring,  glorious  Spring,  has  come  ! 

The  south-wind’s  balm  is  in  the  air. 

The  melting  snow-wreaths  everywhere 
Are  leaping  oiF  in  showers ; 


28G 


SELECTIONS  IN  POETRY. 


And  Nature,  in  her  brightening  looks, 

Tells  that  her  flowers  and  leaves  and  brooks 
And  birds  will  soon  be  ours. 

A few  soft  sunny  days  have  shone. 

The  air  has  lost  its  chill, 

A bright  green  tinge  succeeds  the  brown 
Ui>on  the  southern  hill. 

Off  to  the  woods  — a pleasant  scene ; 

Here  sprouts  the  fresh  young  wintergreen, 
There  swells  a mossy  mound ; 

Though  in  the  hollow,  drifts  are  piled. 

The  wandering  wind  is  sweet  and  mild. 

And  buds  are  bursting  round. 

Where  its  long  rings  uncurls  the  fern. 

The  violet,  nestling  low. 

Casts  back  the  white  lid  of  its  urn^ 

Its  pui'ple  streaks  to  show. 

Beautiful  blossom  ] first  to  rise 
And  smile  beneath  Spring’s  wakening  skies, 
The  courier  of  the  band 
Of  coming  flowers,  — what  feelings  sweet 
Gush  as  the  silvery  gem  we  meet 
Upon  its  slender  wand ! 

Warmer  is  each  successive  sky. 

More  soft  the  breezes  pass  ; 

The  maple’s  gems  of  crimson  lie 
Upon  the  thick  green  grass. 

The  dogwood  sheds  its  clusters  white. 

The  birch  has  dropped  its  tassels  slight. 
Cowslips  are  round  the  rill ; 


THE  SWALLOWS. 


287 


The  thresher  whistles  in  the  glen, 

Flutters  around  the  warbling  wren, 

And  swamps  have  voices  shrill. 

A simultaneous  burst  of  leaves 
Has  clothed  the  forest  now  ; 

A single  day’s  bright  sunshine  weaves 
This  vivid,  gorgeous  show. 

Masses  of  shade  are  cast  beneath. 

The  flowers  are  spread  in  varied  wreath, 

Night  brings  its  soft,  sweet  moon ; 

Morn  wak^s  in  mist,  and  twilight  gray 
Weeps  its  bright  dew,  and  smiling  May 
Melts  into  blooming  J une ! 

ALFRED  B.  STREET. 


THE  SWALLOWS. 

WRITTEN  ON  SEEING  THEM  GATHER  ON  HIS  ROOF  DURING  HIS 
LAST  ILLNESS. 

Ye  gentle  birds,  that  perch  aloof, 

And  smooth  your  pinions  on  my  roof, 

Preparing  for  departure  hence. 

Now  winter’s  angry  threats  commence  ; — 

Like  you  my  soul  would  smooth  her  plume 
For  longer  flights  beyond  the  tomb. 

May  God,  by  whom  is  seen  and  heard 
Departing  men  and  wandering  bird, 

In  mercy  mark  us  for  his  own. 

And  guide  us  to  the  land  unknown  ! 


HAYLEY. 


SELECTIONS  IN  rOI^TRV. 


THE  dile:mma. 


Now,  by  the  blessed  Paphian  queen, 

Who  heaves  the  breast  of  sweet  sixteen  ; 
By  every  name  I cut  on  bark 
Before  my  morning  star  grevv^  dark  ; 

By  Hymen’s  torch,  by  Cupid’s  dart. 

By  all  that  thrills  the  beating  heart ; 

The  bright  black  eye,  the  melting  blue,  — 
I cannot  choose  between  the  two. 

I had  a vision  in  my  dreams ; — 

I saw  a row  of  twenty  beams ; 

From  every  beam  a rope  was  hung. 

In  every  rope  a lover  swung : 

I asked  the  hue  of  every  eye 
That  bade  each  luckless  lover  die ; 

Ten  livid  lips  said  heavenly  blue, 

And  ten  accused  the  darker  hue. 

I asked  a matron  which  she  deemed 
With  fairest  light  of  beauty  beamed ; 


THE  DILEMMA. 


289 


She  answered,  some  thought  both  were  fair,  — 
Give  her  blue  eyes  and  golden  hair. 

I might  have  liked  her  judgment  well, 

Eut,  as  she  spoke,  she  rang  the  bell. 

And  all  her  girls,  nor  small  nor  few. 

Came  marching  in,  — their  eyes  were  blue. 

I asked  a maiden ; back  she  flung 
The  locks  that  round  her  forehead  hung. 

And  turned  her  eye,  — a glorious  one. 

Bright  as  a diamond  in  the  sun,  — 

On  me,  until  beneath  its  rays 
I felt  as  if  my  hair  would  blaze ; 

She  liked  all  eyes  but  eyes  of  green ! 

She  looked  at  me,  — -.what  could  she  mean  ? 

Ah ! many  lids  Love  lurks  between. 

Nor  heeds  the  coloring  of  the  screen  ; 

And  when  his  random  arrows  fly. 

The  victim  falls,  but  knows  not  why. 

Gaze  not  upon  his  shield  of  jet,  — 

The  shaft  upon  the  string  is  set ; 

Look  not  beneath  his  azure  veil. 

Though  every  limb  were  cased  in  mail. 

Well,  both  might  make  a martyr  break 
The  chain  that  bound  him  to  the  stake ; 

And  both,  with  but  a single  ray, 

Can  melt  our  very  hearts  away ; 

And  both,  when  balanced,  hardly  seem 
To  stir  the  scales,  or  rock  the  beam ; 

But  that  is  dearest,  all  the  while. 

That  wears  for  us  the  sweetest  smile. 

HOLMES. 


13 


s 


290 


SELECTIONS  IN  POETRY. 


TO  NTGirr. 

The  following  sonnet  was  so  much  admired  by  Coleridge,  tliat  he  pronounced 
it  the  finest  in  our  language.  “ In  reading  these  lines,”  says  Uliss  Mitford,  “ it 
is  difficult  to  believe  that  the  author  (Blanco  White)  was  not  only  bom  and 
educated  in  Spain,  but  wrote  English  very  imperfectly  until  he  was  turned  of 
thirty.” 

Mysterious  night ! when  our  first  parent  knew 
Thee  from  report  divine,  and  heard  thy  name, 

Did  he  not  tremble  for  this  lovely  frame, 

This  glorious  canopy  of  light  and  blue  ? 

Yet  ’neath  a curtain  of  translucent  dew. 

Bathed  in  the  rays  of  the  great  setting  flame, 

Hesperus  with  the  host  of  heaven  came, 

And,  lo  ! creation  widened  in  man’s  view. 

Who  could  have  thought  such  darkness  lay  concealed 
Within  thy  beams,  0 sun  ? or  who  could  find. 

Whilst  fly,  and  leaf,  and  insect  stood  revealed. 

That  to  such  countless  orbs  thou  mad’st  us  blind  ? 

Why  do  we,  then,  shun  death  with  anxious  strife  ? 

If  light  can  thus  deceive,  wherefore  not  life  ? 

J.  BLANCO  WHITE. 


THE  mLAGE  PREACHER. 

Near  yonder  copse,  where  once  the  garden  smiled, 

And  still  where  many  a garden-flower  grows  wild, 
There,  where  a few  torn  shrubs  the  place  disclose. 

The  village  preacher’s  modest  mansion  rose. 

A man  he  was  to  all  the  country  dear. 

And  passing  rich  with  forty  pounds  a year. 

Bemote  from  towns  he  ran  his  godly  race, 

Nor  e’er  had  changed,  nor  wished  to  change,  his  place ; 
Unpractised  he  to  fawn,  or  seek  for  power. 

By  doctrines  fashioned  to  the  varying  hour ; 


THE  VILLAGE  PREACHER. 


291 


Far  other  aims  his  heart  had  learnt  to  prize, 

More  skilled  to  raise  the  wretched  than  to  rise. 

His  house  was  known  to  all  the  vagrant  train,  — 

He  chid  their  wanderings,  but  relieved  their  pain ; 

The  long-remembered  beggar  was  his  guest. 

Whose  beard  descending  swept  his  aged  breast ; 

The  ruined  spendthrift,  now  no  longer  proud. 

Claimed  kindred  there,  and  had  his  claim  allowed ; 

The  broken  soldier,  kindly  bade  to  stay, 

Sat  by  his  fire,  and  talked  the  night  away ; 

Wept  o’er  his  wounds,  or,  tales  of  sorrow  done. 
Shouldered  his  crutch,  and  showed  how  fields  were  won. 
Pleased  with  his  guest,  the  good  man  learned  to  glow 
And  quite  forgot  their  vices  in  their  woe ; 

Careless  their  merits  or  their  faults  to  scan. 

His  pity  gave  ere  charity  began. 

Thus  to  relieve  the  wretched  was  his  pride. 

And  even  his  failings  leaned  to  virtue’s  side ; 

But  in  his  duty  prompt  at  every  call. 

He  watched  and  wept,  he  prayed  and  felt,  for  all ; 
And,  as  a bird  each  fond  endearment  tries. 

To  tempt  its  new-fledged  oJffspring  to  the  skies. 

He  tried  each  art,  reproved  each  dull  delay. 

Allured  to  brighter  worlds,  and  led  the  way. 

Beside  the  bed  where  parting  life  was  laid. 

And  sorrow,  guilt  and  pain,  by  turns  dismayed. 

The  reverend  champion  stood.  At  his  control 
Despair  and  anguish  fled  the  struggling  soul ; 

• Comfort  came  down,  the  trembling  wretch  to  raise, 
And  his  last  faltering  accents  whispered  praise. 

At  church,  with  meek  and  unafiected  grace. 

His  looks  adorned  the  venerable  place  , 


292 


SELECTIONS  IN  POETllY. 


Truth  from  his  lips  prevailed  with  double  sway, 

And  fools,  who  came  to  scoff,  remained  to  pray. 

The  service  past,  around  the  pious  man. 

With  steady  zeal,  each  honest  rustic  ran ; 

Even  children  followed,  with  endearing  wile. 

And  plucked  his  gown,  to  share  the  good  man’s  smile. 
His  ready  smile  a parent’s  warmth  exprest. 

Their  welfare  pleased  him,  and  their  cares  distrest ; 

To  them  his  heart,  his  love,  his  griefs,  were  given. 
But  all  his  serious  thoughts  had  rest  in  heaven. 

As  some  tall  cliff,  that  lifts  its  awful  form, 

Swells  from  the  vale,  and  midway  leaves  the  storm. 
Though  round  its  breast  the  rolling  clouds  are  spread. 
Eternal  sunshine  settles  on  its  head. 

GOLDSMITH. 


LOOK  ALOFT. 

The  following  lines  are  founded  upon  the  little  story,  said  to  have  been  related 
by  the  late  Dr.  Godman,  of  the  ship-boy,  who  was  about  to  fall  from  the  rigging, 
and  was  only  saved  by  the  mate’s  exclamation  — “ Look  aloft ! ” 

In  the  tempest  of  life,  when  the  wave  and  the  gale, 

Are  around  and  above,  if  thy  footing  should  fail, 

If  thine  eye  should  grow  dim,  and  thy  caution  depart, 

“ Look  aloft ! ” and  be  firm  and  be  fearless  of  heart. 

If  the  friend  who  embraced  in  prosperity’s  glow, 

With  a smile  for  each  joy  and  a tear  for  each  woe. 

Should  betray  thee,  when  sorrows,  like  clouds,  are  arrayed, 
“ Look  aloft ! ” to  the  friendship  which  never  shall  fade. 

Should  the  vision  which  hope  spreads  in  light  to  thine  eye. 
Like  the  tints  of  the  rainbow,  but  brighten  ta  fly. 

Then  turn,  and  through  tears  of  repentant  regret 
“ Look  aloft ! ” to  the  sun  that  is  never  to  set. 


OCCASION. 


293 


Should  they  who  are  dearest  — the  son  of  thy  heart, 

The  wife  of  thy  bosom  — in  sorrow  depart, 

“ Look  aloft ! ” from  the  darkness  and  dust  of  the  tomb, 
To  that  soil  where  afiPection  is  ever  in  bloom. 

And  0 ! when  death  comes  in  his  terrors  to  cast 
His  fears  on  the  future,  his  pall  on  the  past, 

In  that  moment  of  darkness,  with  hope  in  thy  heart, 
And  a smile  in  thine  eye,  “ Look  aloft ! ” and  depart. 

LAWRENCE. 


OCCASION. 

“ Say,  who  art  thou,  with  more  than  mortal  air. 
Endowed  by  Heaven  with  gifts  and  graces  rare, 

Whom  restless,  winged  feet  forever  onward  bear  ? ” 

“ I am  Occasion  — known  to  few  at  best ; 

And  since  one  foot  upon  a wheH  I rest. 

Constant  my  movenients  are  — they  cannot  be  repressed. 

“ Not  the  swift  eagle  in  his  swiftest  flight 
Can  equal  me  in  speed,  — my  wings  are  bright ; 

And  man,  who  sees  them  waved,  is  dazzled  by  the  sight. 

“ My  thick  and  flowing  locks  before  me  thrown 
Conceal  my  form,  — nor  face  nor  breast  is  shown, 

' That  thus,  as  I approach,  my  coming  be  not  known. 

“ Behind  my  head  no  single  lock  of  hair 
Invites  the  hand  that  fain  would  grasp  it  there ; 

But  he  who  lets  me  pass  to  seize  me  may  despair.” 

‘‘  Whom,  then,  so  close  behind  thee  do  I see  ? ” 

“ Her  name  is  Penitence  ; and  Heaven’s  decree 
Hath  made  all  those  her  prey  who  profit  not  by  m® 


294 


SELECTIONS  IN  POETRV^. 


And  thou,  0 mortal,  who  dost  vainly  ply 
• These  curious  questions,  thou  dost  not  descry 
That  now  thy  time  is  lost,  — for  I am  passing  by.” 


HOPE’S  BRIGHTER  SHORE. 

O’er  the  wild  waste  the  autumnal  leaf  careers. 

Nor  vale  nor  mountain  now  is  ripe  with  flowers ; 
Nature’s  fair  brow  the  snow  of  winter  scars. 

And  all  but  Hope  hath  fled  her  once  green  bowers, 
Hope  with  her  sunny  hair. 

And  why  thus  lonely  lingers  she,  when  all 
The  glorious  gifts  of  summer  are  no  more  ? — 

Her  foot  already  treads  Spring’s  leafy  hall ! 

Her  eyes  see  sunbeams  gild  the  distant  shore,  — 
Distant,  yet  still  how  fair  ! 

So  when  the  laugh  of  childhood  and  the  song 
Are  heard  no  longer,  as  in  other  days, 

Hope,  with  her  rainbow  wand,  still  leads  along 

To  where,  all  flushed  with  Manhood’s  noontide  rays, 
Succeeds  a prouder  age. 

Who  loveth  Fame  ? — Lo ! where  her  temple  stands  ! 

Who,  mad  Ambition  ? — There  the  laurel  waves  ! 
All  that  the  majesty  of  mind  commands. 

All  that  the  heart  of  man  insatiate  craves, 

Is  found  in  Hope’s  bright  page. 

And  yet  the  mighty  majesty  of  mind. 

Ambition,  Fame,  are  mixed  with  earthly  leaven. 
What  are  their  purest  joys  to  the  refined 

And  spotless  ones,  the  promised  ones  of  Heaven, 
Joys  that  shall  ne’er  decay  ! 


THE  MORAL  LAW. 


295 


The  tear  of  sorrow  hath  no  dwelling  there,  — 

Earth  is  its  birth-place  ; why  should  angels  weep  ? 
They  know  not  Sorrow,  as  they  know  not  Care, 

But,  as  Life’s  pilgrim  climbs  the  rugged  steep, 

They  cheer  him  on  his  way. 

Thrice  happy  he  whom  through  each  devious  path 
The  Lamp  of  Faith  conducts  with  steady  light ! 

His  spirit  quails  not  at  the  tempest’s  wrath ; 

He  trembles  not  when  lowers  the  moonless  night, 
Nor  fears  the  Ocean’s  roar. 

0 ! life  may  have  its  sorrows  and  its  cares. 

Yet  come  they  but  from  sin  to  purify 
While  Death  itself,  the  power  that  never  spares, 

Is  but  the  soul-bark  of  Mortality, 

Seeking  a brighter  shore ! 


THE  MORAL  LAW. 

All  true  glory  rests. 

All  praise  of  safety,  and  all  happiness, 

Upon  the  moral  law.  Egyptian  Thebes, 

Tyre  by  the  margin  of  the  sounding  waves. 
Palmyra  central  in  the  desert,  fell ! 

And  the  arts  died  by  which  ihey  had  been  raised. 
Call  Archimedes  from  his  buried  tomb 
Upon  the  plain  of  vanished  Syracuse, 

And  feelingly  the  sage  shall  make  report 
How  insecure  how  baseless  in  itself. 

Is  that  philosophy,  whose  sway  is  framed 
For  mere  material  instruments : — how  weak 
Those  arts,  and  high  inventions,  if  unpropped 
By  virtue.  ^ 


WORDSWORTH. 


20G 


SELECTIONS  IN  POETRY. 


BOOKS. 

My  days  among  the  dead  are  past ; 

Around  me  I behold, 

Where’er  these  casual  eyes  are  cast, 

The  mighty  minds  of  old ; 

My  never-failing  friends  are  they, 

With  whom  I converse  day  by  day. 

With  them  I take  delight  in  weal, 

And  seek  relief  in  woe  ; 

And,  while  I understand  and  feel 
How  much  to  them  I owe. 

My  cheeks  have  often  been  bedewed 

With  tears  of Thoughtful  gratitude. 

My  thoughts  are  with  the  dead ; — with  them 
I live  in  long-past  years ; 

Their  virtues  love,  their  faults  condemn. 
Partake  their  hopes  and  fears ; 

And  from  their  lessons  seek  and  find 

Instruction  with  an  humble  mind. 

My  hopes  are  with  the  dead ; anon 
My  place  with  them  will  be, 


IMMORTALITY  OF  LOVE. 


29 


And  I with  them  shall  travel  on 
Through  all  futurity ; 

Yet  leaving  here  a name,  I trust, 

That  will  not  perish  in  the  dust. 

SOUTHEY. 


ON  PARTING  WITH  MY  BOOKS. 

As  one  who,  destined  from  his  friends  to  part, 
llegrets  his  loss,  but  hopes  again  ere  while 
To  share  their  converse  and  enjoy  their  smile, 

And  tempers,  as  he  may,  affliction’s  dart,  — 

Thus,  loved  associates,  chiefs  of  elder  art. 

Teachers  of  wisdom  ! who  could  once  beguile 
My  tedious  hours,  and  lighten  every  toil, 

I now  resign  you ; nor  with  fainting  heart ; 

For,  pass  a few  short  years,  or  days,  or  hours, 

And  happier  seasons  may  their  dawn  unfold, 

And  all  your  sacred  fellowship  restore ; 

When,  freed  from  earth,  unlimited  its  powers. 
Mind  shall  with  mind  direct  communion  hold. 

And  kindred  spirits  meet  to  part  no  more  ! 

WILLIAM  IlOSCOE. 


IMMORTALITY  OF  LOVE. 


They  sin  who  tell  us  love  can  die. 

With  life  all  other  passions  fly. 

All  others  are  but  vanity ; 

In  heaven  ambition  cannot  dwell. 

Nor  avarice  in  the  vaults  of  hell ; 

Earthly  these  passions  of  the  earth. 

They  perish  where  they  have  their  birth  ; 


13# 


/ 


298 


SELECTIONS  IN  POETRY. 


But  love  is  indestructible : 

Its  holy  flame  forever  burneth, 

From  heaven  it  came,  to  heaven  rcturncth. 
Too  oft  on  earth  a troubled  guest, 

At  times  deceived,  at  times  oppressed, 

It  here  is  tried  and  purified. 

Then  hath  in  heaven  its  perfect  rest : 

It  soweth  here  with  toil  and  care. 

But  the  harvest-time  of  love  is  there. 

0 ! when  a mother  meets  on  higli 
The  babe  she  lost  in  infancy. 

Hath  she  not  then,  for  pains  and  fears, 
The  day  of  woe,  the  watchful  night. 
For  all  her  sorrow,  all  her  tears. 

An  over-payment  of  delight  ? 

SOUTHEY. 


HYMN  OF  A HER^HT. 

Sweet  morn  ! from  countless  cups  of  gold 
Thou  liftest  reverently  on  high 

More  incense  fine  than  earth  can  hold. 

To  fill  the  sky. 

One  interfusion  wide  of  love — 

Thine  airs  and  odors  moist  descend, 

And  mid  the  azure  depths  above 
With  light  they  blend. 

The  lark,  by  his  own  carol  blest. 

From  thy  green  harbors  eager  springs ; 

And  his  large  heart  in  little  breast 
Exulting  sings. 


HYMN  OF  A HERMIT. 


200 


On  lands  and  seas,  on  fields  and  woods, 
x\nd  cottage  roofs,  and  ancient  spires, 

0 morn ! thy  gaze  creative  broods. 

While  night  retires. 

Aloft  the  mountain  ridges  beam 
Above  their  quiet  steeps  of  gray ; 

The  eastern  clouds  with  glory  stream, 

And  vital  day. 

By  valleys  dank  and  rivers  brim, 

Through  corn-clad  fields  and  wizard  groves, 

O’er  dazzling  tracks  and  hollows  dim, 

One  spirit  roves. 

The  broad-helmed  oak-tree’s  endless  growth. 
The  mossy  stone  that  crowns  the  hill, 

The  violet’s  breast,  to  gazers  loath, 

In  sunshine  thrill. 

A joy  from  hidden  paradise 

Is  rippling  down  the  shiny  brooks, 

With  beauty  like  the  gleams  of  eyes 
In  tenderest  looks. , 

Where’er  the  vision’s  boundaries  glance, 
Existence  swells  with  teeming  power. 

And  all-illumined  earth’s  expanse 
Inhales  the  hour. 

Not  sands,  and  rocks,  and  seas  immense, 

And  vapors  thin  and  halls  of  air,  • — 

Not  these  alone,  with  kindred  glance, 

The  splendor  share. 


300 


SELECTIONS  IN  POETRY. 


The  fly  his  jocund  round  inweaves, 

With  choral  strain  the  birds  salute 

The  voiceful  flocks,  and  nothing  grieves, 
And  naught  is  mute. 

In  man,  0 morn ! a loftier  good. 

With  conscious  blessing,  fills  the  soul,  — 

A life  by  reason  understood, 

Which  metes  the  whole. 

With  healthful  pulse,  and  tranquil  fire, 
Which  plays  at  ease  in  every  limb. 

His  thoughts  unchecked  to  heaven  aspire, 
Ptcvealed  in  him. 

To  thousand  tasks  of  fruitful  hope. 

With  skill  against  his  toil,  he  bends. 

And  finds  his  work’s  determined  scope 
Where’er  he  wends. 

From  earth,  and  earthly  toil  and  strife. 

To  deathless  aims  his  love  may  rise ; 

Each  dawn  may  wake  to  better  life. 

With  purer  eyes. 

Such  grace  from  thee,  0 God  ! be  ours, 
Kenewed  with  every  morning’s  ray. 

And  freshening  still,  with  added  flowers. 
Each  future  day. 

To  man  is  given  one  primal  star ; 

The  day-spring’s  beam  has  dawned  below, 

From  thine  our  inmost  glories  are. 

With  thine  we  glow. 


BOAT-SONG. 


301 


Like  earth,  awake,  and  warm,  and  bright. 
With  joy  the  spirit  moves  and  burns ; 

So  up  to  thee,  0 Fount  of  Light ! 

Our  light  returns. 

JOHN  STERLING. 


BOAT-SONG. 

“ Eripite  o socii,  pariterque  insurgite  remis.” 

Bend  on  your  oars,  — for  the  sky  it  is  dark. 

And  the  wind  it  is  rising  apace ; 

For  the  waves  they  are  white,  with  their  crests  all  so  bright, 
And  they  strive  as  if  running  a race. 

Tug  on  your  oars,  — for  the  day ’s  on  the  wane. 

And  the  twilight  is  deepening  fast ; 

For  the  clouds  in  the  sky  show  the  hurricane  nigh. 

As  they  flee  from  the  face  of  the  blast. 

Stretch  on  your  oars,  — for  the  sun  it  is  down. 

And  the  waves  are  like  lions  in  play ; 

The  stars  they  are  fled,  and  no  moon  is  o’erhead. 

Or  to  point  or  to  cheer  our  lone  way. 

Rise  on  your  oars,  — let  the  bright  star  of  hope 
Be  seen  ’mid  the  tempest’s  wild  roar ; 

And  cheer,  lads ! for  we,  who  were,  born  on  the  sea. 

Have  weathered  such  tempests  before. 

Rest  on  your  oars,  — for  the  haven  is  won, 

And  the  tempest  may  bluster  till  morn  ; 

For  the  bold  and  the  brave  are  now  freed  from  the  wave. 
Where  they  late  roamed  so  lonely  and  lorn. 


302 


SELECTIONS  IN  POETRY. 


THE  CRUCIFIXION. 

I ASKED  the  heavens  ; — “ What  foe  to  God  had  done 
This  unexampled  d(^ed?  The  heavens  exclaim, 

‘‘  ’T  was  man  ; and  we  in  horror  snatched  the  sun 
From  such  a spectacle  of  guilt  and  shame.” 

I asked  the  sea  ; — the  sea  in  fury  boiled, 

And  answered  with  his  voice  of  storms,  — “ ’T  was  man 
My  waves  in  panic  at  his  crime  recoiled, 

Disclosed  the  abyss,  and  from  the  centre  ran.” 

I asked  the  earth ; — the  earth  replied  aghast, 

“ ’T  was  man ; and  such  strange  pangs  my  bosom  rent, 
That  still  I groan  and  shudder  at  the  past.” 

To  man,  gay,  smiling,  thoughtless  man,  I went. 

And  asked  him  next : — he  turned  a scornful  eye. 

Shook  his  proud  head,  and  deigned  me  no  reply. 

MONT^GOMERY. 


A NORTHERN  SPRING. 

Winter  is  past ; the  heart  of  Nature  warms 
Beneath  the  wrecks  of  unresisted  storms  \ 

Doubtful  at  first,  suspected  more  than  seen, 

The  southern  slopes  are  fringed  with  tender  green ; 
On  sheltered  banks,  beneath  the  dripping  eaves. 
Spring’s  earliest  nurslings  spread  their  glowing  leaves. 
Bright  with  the  hues  from  wider  pictures  won, 

White,  azure,  golden,  — drift,  or  sky,  or  sun  ; — 

The  snowdrop,  bearing  on  her  patient  breast 
The  frozen  trophy  torn  from  winter’s  crest  ; 

The  violet,  gazing  on  the  arch  of  blue 
Till  her  own  iris  wears  its  deepened  hue ; 

The  spendthrift  crocus,  bursting  through  the  mould. 
Naked  and  shivering  with  his  cup  of  gold. 


A NORTHERN  SPRING. 


308 


Swelled  with  new  life,  the  darkening  elm  on  high 
Prints  her  thick  buds  against  the  spotted  sky ; 

On  all  her  boughs  the  stately  chestnut  cleaves 
The  gummy  shroud  that  wraps  her  embryo  leaves ; 
The  housefly,  stealing  from  his  narrow  grave. 
Drugged  with  the  opiate  that  November  gave, 

Beats  with  faint  wing  against  the  sunny  pane. 

Or  crawls,  tenacious,  o’er  its  lucid  plain ; 

From  shaded  chinks  of  lichen-crusted  walls. 

In  languid  curves,  the  gliding  serpent  crawls  ; 

The  bog’s  green  harper,  thawing  from  his  sleep, 
Twangs  a hoarse  note  and  tries  a shortened  leap  ; 

On  floating  rails  that  face  the  softening  noons 
The  still  shy  turtles  range  their  dark  platoons. 

Or  toiling,  aimless,  o’er  the  mellowing  fields, 

Trail  through  the  grass  their  tessellated  shields. 

At  last  young  April,  ever  frail  and  fair. 

Wooed  by  her  playmate  with  the  golden  hair. 

Chased  to  the  margin  of  receding  floods 

O’er  the  soft  meadows  starred  with  opening  buds. 

In  tears  and  blushes  sighs  herself  away. 

And  hides  her  cheek  beneath  the  flowers  of  May. 

Then  the  proud  tulip  lights  her  beacon  blaze. 

Her  clustering  curls  the  hyacinth  displays  ; 

O’er  her  tall  blades  the  crested  fleur-de-lis. 

Like  blue-eyed  Pallas,  towers  erect  and  free  ; 

With  yellower  flames  the  lengthened  sunshine  glows^ 
And  love  lays  bare  the  passion-breathing  rose ; 
Queen  of  the  lake,  along  its  reedy  verge 
The  rival  lily  hastens  to  emerge. 


SELECTIONS  IN  POETRY. 


Her  snowy  shoulders  glistening  as  she  strips, 

Till  morn  is  sultan  of  her  parted  lips. 

Then  bursts  the  song  from  every  leafy  glade, 

The  yielding  season’s  bridal  serenade ; 

Then  flash  the  wings  returning  summer  calls 
Through  the  deep  arches  of  her  forest  halls  ; 

The  bluebird  breathing  from  his  azure  plumes 
The  fragrance  borrowed  where  the  myrtle  blooms ; 
The  thrush,  poor  wanderer,  dropping  meekly  down, 
Clad  in  his  remnant  of  autumnal  brown  ; 

The  oriole,  drifting  like  a flake  of  fire 
Rent  by  the  whirlwind  from  a blazing  spire. 

The  robin,  jerking  his  spasmodic  throat. 

Repeats,  staccato^  his  peremptory  note ; 

The  crack-brained  bobolink  courts  his  crazy  mate, 
Poised  on  a bulrush  tipsy  with  his  weight ; 

Nay,  in  his  cage  the  lone  canary  sings. 

Feels  the  soft  air,  and  spreads  his  idle  wings ; — 

Why  dream  I here  within  these  caging  walls. 

Deaf  to  her  voice  while  blooming  Nature  calls  ; 
Peering  and  gazing  with  insatiate  looks 
Through  blinding  lenses,  or  in  wearying  books  ? 

OS’,  gloomy  spectres  of  the  shrivelled  past ! 

Fly  with  the  leaves  that  filled  the  autumn  blast ! 
Ye  imps  of  Science,  whose  relentless  chains 
Lock  the  warm  tides  within  these  living  veins. 
Close  your  dim  cavern,  while  its  captive  strays 
Dazzled  and  giddy  in  the  morning’s  blaze  ! 


HOLMES. 


MUSINGS  IN  THE  TEMPLE  OF  NATURE. 


305 


MUSINGS  IN  THE  TEMPLE  OF  NATUPE. 

Man  can  build  nothing  worthy  of  his  Maker ; — 
From  royal  Solomon’s  stupendous  fane, 

Down  to  the  humble  chapel  of  the  Quaker, 

All,  all  are  vain. 

The  wondrous  world  which  He  himself  created 
Is  the  fit  temple  of  creation’s  Lord  ; 

There  may  His  worship  best  be  celebrated. 

And  praises  poured : 

Its  altar,  earth ; its  roof,  the  sky  untainted ; 

Sun,  moon  and  stars,  the  lamps  that  give  it  light : 

And  clouds,  by  the  celestial  Artist  painted. 

Its  pictures  bright : 

Its  choir,  all  vocal  things,  whose  glad  devotion 
In  one  united  hymii  is  heavenward  sped ; 

The  thunder-peal,  the  winds,  the  deep-mouthed  ocean, 

Its  organ  dread ! 

The  face  of  Nature  its  God- written  Bible, 

Which  all  mankind  may  study  and  explore. 

While  none  can  wrest,  interpolate,  or  libel 

Its  living  lore ! 

Hence  learn  we  that  our  Maker,  whose  affection 
Knows  no  distinction,  suffers  no  recall. 

Sheds  His  impartial  favor  and  protection 

Alike  on  all. 

Thus  by  Divine  example  do  we  gather. 

That  every  race  should  love  alike  all  others ; 

Christian,  Jew,  Pagan,  children  of  one  Father, 

All,  all  are  brothers ! 

T 


06 


SELECTIONS  IN  POETRY. 


Conscience,  Heaven’s  silent  oracle,  the  assessor 
Of  right  and  wrong  in  every  human  breast 

Sternly  condemns  the  impenitent  transgressor 

To  live  unblest. 

The  pious  and  the  virtuous,  though  assaulted 
By  fortune’s  frown,  or  man’s  unjust  decrees. 

Still  in  their  bosoms  find  a pure,  exalted. 

Unfailing  peace  ’ 

Hence  do  we  learn  that  hardened  vice  is  hateful. 
Since  Heaven  pursues  it  with  avenging  rod ; 

While  goodness,  self-rewarded,  must  be  grateful 

To  man  and  God. 

0 ! Thou  most  visible,  yet  unseen  Teacher, 

Whose  finger  writes  its  lessons  on  our  sphere, 

0 ! Thou  most  audible,  but  unheard  Preacher, 

Whose  sermons  clear 

Are  seen  and  read  in  all  that  Thou  performest, 

Wilt  Thou  look  down  and  bless,  if,  when  I kneel 

Apart  from  man-built  fanes,  I feel  the  warmest 

And  purest  zeal  ? 

If  in  the  temple  Thine  own  hands  have  fashioned, 
’Neath  the  bright  sky,  by  lonely  stream  or  wood 

1 pour  to  Thee,  with  thrilling  heart  impassioned. 

My  gratitude  ? 

If  in  Thy  present  miracles  terrestrial 

Mine  eyes  behold,  wherever  I have  kneeled. 

New  proofs  of  the  futurity  celestial 

To  man  revealed  ? 


MONTGOLFIER  IN  HIS  BALLOON. 


307 


If,  fearing  Thee,  I love  the  whole  creation. 

Keeping  my  bosom  undefiled  by  guilt. 

Wilt  Thou  receive  and  bless  mine  adoration  ? 

Thou  wilt,  Thou  wilt ! 

CHATFIELD. 


MONTGOLFIER  IN  HIS  BALLOON. 

See  on  the  shoreless  air  the  intrepid  Gaul 
Launch  the  vast  concave  of  his  flying  ball ! 

Journeying  on  high,  the  silken  castle  glides. 

Bright  as  a meteor  through  the  azure  tides ; 

O’er  towns  and  towers  and  temples  wins  its  way. 

Or  mounts  sublime,  and  gilds  the  vault  of  day. 

Silent,  with  upturned  eyes,  unbreathing  crowds 
Pursue  the  floating  wonder  to  the  clouds ; 

And,  flushed  with  transport  or  benumbed  with  fear, 
Watch,  as  it  rises,  the  diminished  sphere. 

— Now  less  and  less,  and  now  a speck  is  seen ; 

And  now  the  fleeting  wrack  obtrudes  between ; 

With  bended  knees,  raised  arms,  and  suppliant  brows. 
To  every  shrine  they  breathe  their  mingled  vows. 

“ Save  him,  ye  saints  who  o’er  the  good  preside ! 

Bear  him,  ye  winds ! ye  stars  benignant,  guide ! ” 

The  calm  philosopher  in  ether  sails. 

Views  broader  stars,  and  breathes  in  purer  gales ; 

Sees,  like  a map,  in  many  a waving  line. 

Bound  earth’s  blue  plains  her  lucid  waters  shine ; 

Sees  at  his  feet  the  forky  lightnings  glow. 

And  hears  innocuous  thunders  roar  below. 


DARWIN. 


308 


SELECTIONS  IN  POETRY. 


THE  YOUNG  LOCHINVAR. 

Tue  young  Lochinvar  is  come  out  of  the  west ! 

Through  all  the  wide  border  his  steed  was  the  best ; 

And,  save  his  good  broadsword,  he  weapon  had  none,  — 
He  rode  all  unarmed  and  he  rode  all  alone. 

So  faithful  in  love,  and  so  gallant  in  war. 

There  never  was  knight  like  the  young  Lochinvar. 

He  staid  not  for  brake,  and  he  stopped  not  for  stone. 

He  swam  the  Esk  river  where  ford  there  was  none ; 

But,  ere  he  alighted  at  Netherby  gate. 

The  bride  had  consented,  the  bridegroom  came  late ; 

For  a laggard  in  love  and  a dastard  in  war 
Was  to  wed  the  fair  Ellen  of  young  Lochinvar. 

So  boldly  he  entered  the  Netherby  Hall, 

Among  bridesmen,  and  kinsmen,  and  brothers,  and  all ; 
Then  spoke  the  bride’s  father,  his  hand  on  his  sword 
(For  the  poor  craven  bridegroom  said  never  a word), 

“0,  come  ye  in  peace  here,  or  come  ye  in  war. 

Or  to  dance  at  our  bridal,  young  Lord  Lochinvar  ? ” 

“ I long  wooed  your  daughter,  — my  suit  you  denied ; 
Love  swells  like  the  Solway,  but  ebbs  like  its  tide ; 

And  now  I am  come,  with  this  lost  love  of  mine. 

To  lead  but  one  measure,  drink  one  cup  of  wine. 

There  are  maidens  in  Scotland  more  lovely  by  far, 

That  would  gladly  be  bride  to  the  young  Lochinvar.” 

The  bride  kissed  the  goblet ; the  knight  took  it  up. 

He  quaffed  off  the  wine  and  he  threw  down  the  cup ; 

She  looked  down  to  blush,  and  she  looked  up  to  sigh,  ^ 
With  a smile  on  her  lips  and  a tear  in  her  eye. 

He  took  her  soft  hand  ere  her  mother  could  bar,  — 
“Now  tread  we  a measure  ! ” said  young  Lochinvar. 


THE  believer’s  TRIUMPH  IN  DEATH. 


309 


So  stately  his  form,  and  so  lovely  his  face, 

That  never  a hall  such  a galliard  did  grace ; 

While  her  mother  did  fret,  and  her  father  did  fume. 

And  the  bridegroom  stood  dangling  his  bonnet  and  plume ; 
And  the  bridemaidens  whispered,  “ ’T  were  better  by  far 
To  have  matched  our  fair  cousin  with  young  Lochinvar.” 

One  touch  to  her  hand,  and  one  word  in  her  ear. 

When  they  reached  the  hall  door,  and  the  charger  stood 
near ; 

So  light  to  the  croupe  the  fair  lady  he  swung, 

So  light  to  the  saddle  before  her  he  sprung ! 

“ She  is  won ! we  are  gone,  over  bank*,  bush,  and  scaur ; 
They  ’ll  have  fleet  steeds  that  follow,”  quoth  young  Loch- 
invar. 

There  was  mounting  ’mong  Graemes  of  the  Netherby  clan ; 
Forsters,  Fenwicks  and  Musgraves,  they  rode  and  they  ran ; 
There  was  racing  and  chasing  on  Cannobie  Lea, 

But  the  lost  bride  of  Netherby  ne’er  did  they  see. 

So  daring  in  love  and  so  gallant  in  war. 

There  never  was  knight  like  the  young  Lochinvar. 

SCOTT. 


THE  BELIEVER’S  TRIUMPH  IN  DEATH. 

Deathless  principle,  arise ! 

Soar,  thou  native  of  the  skies ! 

Pearl  of  price,  by  Jesus  bought. 

To  His  glorious  likeness  wrought. 

Go  to  shine  before  His  throne. 

Deck  His  mediatorial  crown ; 

Go,  His  triumphs  to  adorn ; 

Made  for  God,  to  God  return. 


310 


SELECTIONS  IN  POETRY. 


' Lo  ! lie  beckons  from  on  high  ! 
Fearless  to  His  presence  fly  ; 

Thine  the  merit  of  His  blood, 

Thine  the  righteousness  of  God. 

Is  thy  earthly  house  distressed  ? 
Willing  to  retain  her  guest  ? 

’T  is  not  thou,  but  she,  must  die ; 
Fly,  celestial  tenant,  fly  ! 

Burst  thy  shackles,  drop  thy  clay  ! 
Sweetly  breathe  thyself  away ; 

To  thy  heavenly  crown  remove. 

Swift  of  wing,  and  fired  with  love  ! 
Shudder  not  to  pass  the  stream ; 
Venture  all  thy  care  on  Him,  — 
Him  whose  dying  love  and  power 
Stilled  its  tossing,  hushed  its  roar. 

Safe  as  the  expanded  wave. 

Gentle  as  the  summer’s  eve,  — 

Not  one  object  of  His  care 
Ever  suffered  shipwreck  there. 

See  the  haven  full  in  view ! 

Love  divine  shall  bear  thee  through ; 
Trust  to  that  propitious  gale. 

Weigh  thy  anchor,  spread  thy  sail ! 

Saints  in  glory  perfect  made 
Wait  thy  passage  through  the  shade ; 
Ardent  for  thy  coming  o’er. 

See,  they  throng  the  blissful  shore ! 
Swiftly  to  their  wish  be  given. 
Kindle  higher  joy  in  heaven. 


THE  LEAP  FOR  LIFE. 


311 


Such  the  prospects  that  arise 
To  the  dying  Christian’s  eyes ! 

Such  the  glorious  vista  Faith 
Opens  through  the  shades  of  death  ! 

TOPLADY. 


THE  LEAP  FOR  LIFE. 

Old  Ironsides  at  anchor  lay, 

In  the  harbor  of  Mahon ; 

A dead  calm  rested  on  the  bay, 

The  waves  to  sleep  had  gone, 

When  little  Jack,  the  captain’s  son. 

With  gallant  hardihood. 

Climbed  shroud  and  spar,  and  then  upon 
The  main-truck  rose  and  stood ! 

A shudder  ran  through  every  vein. 

All  eyes  were  turned  on  high ! 

There  stood  the  boy,  with  dizzy  brain. 
Between  the  sea  and  sky ! 

No  hold  had  he  above,  below  ! 

Alone  he  stood  in  air  ! 

At  that  far  height  none  dared  to  go. 

No  aid  could  reach  him  there. 

We  gazed,  — but  not  a man  could  speak  ! — 
With  horror  all  aghast. 

In  groups,  with  pallid  brow  and  cheek. 

We  watched  the  quivering  mast. 

The  atmosphere  grew  thick  and  hot, 

And  of  a lurid  hue. 

As,  riveted  unto  the  spot. 

Stood  officers  and  crew. 


312 


SELECTIONS  IN  POETRY. 


The  father  came  on  deck ! — He  gasped, 

“ 0 God ! thy  will  be  done ! ” 

Then  suddenly  a rifle  grasped, 

And  aimed  it  at  his  son  ! 

“Jump,  far  out,  boy,  into  the  wave  ! 

Jump,  or  I fire  ! ” he  said ; 

“ That  only  chance  your  life  can  save ! 

Jump,  jump,  boy ! ” — He  obeyed. 

He  sunk,  — he  rose,  — he  lived,  — he  moved. 
He  for  the  ship  struck  out ! 

On  board  we  hailed  the  lad  beloved, 

With  many  a manly  shout ; 

His  father  drew,  in  silent  joy. 

Those  wet  arms  round  his  neck, 

Then  folded  to  his  heart  the  boy, 

And  fainted  on  the  deck. 

GEO.  P.  MORRIS. 


FAR  OUT  AT  SEA. 

Far  out  at  sea,  — the  sun  was  high,  — 

While  veered  the  wind  and  flapped  the  sail. 
We  saw  a snow-white  butterfly 
Dancing  before  the  fitful  gale, 

Far  out  at  sea. 

The  little  stranger,  who  had  lost 

His  way,  of  danger  nothing  knew,  — 
Settled  a while  upon  the  mast, 

Then  fluttered  o’er  the  waters  blue. 

Far  out  at  sea. 

Above,  there  gleamed  the  boundless  sky ; 
Beneath,  the  boundless  ocean  sheen ; 


ON  THE  RECEIPT  OP  MY  MOTHER’S  PICTURE.  313 

Between  them  danced  the  butterfly, 

The  spirit  life  in  this  vast  scene, 

Far  out  at  sea. 

Away  he  sped,  with  shimmering  glee ! 

Dim,  indistinct,  — now  seen,  now  gone ; 

Night  comes,  with  wind  and  rain,  and  he 
No  more  will  dance  before  the  morn. 

Far  out  at  sea. 

He  dies  unlike  his  mates  I ’ve  seen. 

Perhaps  not  sooner  nor  worse  crossed ; 

And  he  hath  felt  and  known  and  seen 
A larger  life  and  hope,  though  lost 
Far  out  at  sea. 


ON  THE  RECEIPT  OF  MY  MOTHER’S  PICTURE. 

0 THAT  those  lips  had  language  ! Life  has  passed 
With  me  but  roughly  since  I heard  thee  last. 

Those  lips  are  thine,  — thine  own  sweet  smile  I see, 
The  same  that  oft  in  childhood  solaced  me ; 

Voice  only  fails,  else  how  distinct  they  say, 

“ Grieve  not,  my  child  ; chase  all  thy  fears  away  ! ” 
The  meek  intelligence  of  those  dear  eyes 
(Blest  be  the  art  that  can  immortalize, — 

The  art  that  baffles  time’s  tyrannic  claim 
To  quench  it !)  here  shines  on  me  still  the  same. 
Faithful  remembrancer  of  one  so  dear, 

0 welcome  guest,  though  unexpected  here ! 

Who  bid’st  me  honor  with  an  artless  song, 
Affectionate,  a mother  lost  so  long. 

1 will  obey,  not  willingly  alone, 

14 


314 


SELECTIONS  IN  POETRY. 


But  gladly,  as  the  precept  were  her  own : 

And,  while  that  face  renews  my  filial  grief. 

Fancy  shall  weave  a charm  for  my  relief ; 

Shall  steep  me  in  Elysian  revery, 

A momentary  dream,  that  thou  art  she. 

My  mother  ! when  I learnt  that  thou  wast  dead. 
Say,  wast  thou  conscious  of  the  tears  I shed  ? 
Hovered  thy  spirit  o’er  thy  sorrowing  son. 

Wretch  even  then,  life’s  journey  just  begun? 

Perhaps  thou  gav’st  me,  though  unfelt,  a kiss ; 
Perhaps  a tear,  if  souls  can  weep  in  bliss. 

Ah,  that  maternal  smile!  it  answers,  — Yes. 

I heard  the  bell  tolled  on  thy  burial  day, 

I saw  the  hearse  that  bore  thee  slow  away. 

And,  turning  from  my  nursery-window,  drew 
A long,  long  sigh,  and  wept  a last  adieu  ! 

But  was  it  such  ? It  was.  — Where  thou  art  gone. 
Adieus  and  farewells  are  a sound  unknown. 

May  I but  meet  thee  on  that  peaceful  shore. 

The  parting  word  shall  pass  my  lips  no  more ! 

Thy  maidens  grieved  themselves  at  my  concern, 

Oft  gave  me  promise  of  thy  quick  return : 

What  ardently  I wished,  I long  believed. 

And,  disappointed  still,  was  still  deceived  : 

By  expectation  every  day  beguiled. 

Dupe  of  to-morrow  even  from  a child. 

Thus  many  a sad  to-morrow  came  and  went, 

Till,  all  my  stock  of  infant  sorrow  spent, 

I learned,  at  last,  submission  to  my  lot. 

But,  though  I less  deplored  thee,  ne’er  forgot. 

Where  once  we  dwelt,  our  name  is  heard  no  more, 
Children  not  thine  have  trod  my  nursery-floor ; 


ON  THE  RECEIPT  OF  MY  MOTHER’S  PICTURE.  315 


And  where  the  gardener  Eobin,  day  by  day, 

Drew  me  to  school  along  the  public  way, 

Delighted  with  my  bauble  coach,  and  wrapt 
In  scarlet  mantle  warm,  and  velvet  cap, 

’T  is  now  become  a history  little  known. 

That  once  we  called  the  pastoral  house  our  own. 
Short-lived  possession  ! but  the  record  fair. 

That  memory  keeps  of  all  thy  kindness  there. 

Still  outlives  many  a storm,  that  has  effasced 
A thousand  other  themes  less  deeply  traced. 

Thy  nightly  visits  to  my  chamber  made. 

That  thou  might’st  know  me  safe  and  warmly  laid ; 
Thy  morning  bounties  ere  I left  my  home. 

The  biscuit  or  confectionary  plum ; 

The  fragrant  waters  on  my  cheeks  bestowed 
By  thy  own  hand,  till  fresh  they  shone  and  glowed : 
All  this,  and,  more  endearing  still  than  all. 

Thy  constant  flow  of  love,  that  knew  no  fall, 

Ne’er  roughened  by  those  cataracts  and  breaks 
That  humor  interposed  too  often  makes ; 

All  this,  still  legible  in  memory’s  page. 

And  still  to  be  so  till  my  latest  age. 

Adds  joy  to  duty,  makes  me  glad  to  pay 
Such  honors  to  thee  as  my  numbers  may : 

Perhaps  a frail  memorial,  but  sincere. 

Not  scorned  in  heaven,  though  little  noticed  here. 

Could  Time,  his  flight  reversed,  restore  the  hours. 
When,  playing  with  thy  vesture’s  tissued  flowers. 

The  violet,  the  pink,  and  jessamine, 

I pricked  them  into  paper  with  a pin 

(And  thou  wast  happier  than  myself  the  while, 

Wouldst  softly  speak,  and  stroke  my  head,  and  smile). 


316 


SELECTIONS  IN  POETRY. 


Could  those  few  pleasant  hours  again  appear, 

Might  one  wish  bring  them,  would  I wish  them  here  ? 
I would  not  trust  my  heart,  — the  dear  delight 
Seems  so  to  be  desired,  perhaps  I might. 

But  no,  — what  here  we  call  our  life  is  such. 

So  little  to  be  loved,  and  thou  so  much. 

That  I should  ill  requite  thee  to  constrain 
Thy  unbound  spirit  into  bonds  again. 

Thou,  as  a gallant  bark  from  Albion’s  coast. 

The  storms  all  weathered,  and  the  ocean  crossed. 
Shoots  into  port  at  some  well-havened  isle. 

Where  spices  breathe,  and  brighter  seasons  smile. 
There  sits  quiescent  on  the  floods  that  show 
Her  beauteous  form  reflected  clear  below. 

While  airs  impregnated  with  incense  play 
Around  her,  fanning  light  her  streamers  gay ; 

So  thou,  with  sails  how  swift ! hast  reached  the  shore 
“ Where  tempests  never  beat  nor  billows  roar,” 

And  thy  loved  consort,  on  the  dangerous  tide 
Of  life,  long  since  has  anchored  by  thy  side. 

But  me,  scarce  hoping  to  attain  that  rest. 

Always  from  port  withheld,  always  distressed. 

Me  howling  blasts  drive  devious,  tempest-tossed. 

Sails  ripped,  seams  opening  wide,  and  compass  lost. 
And  day  by  day  some  current’s  thwarting  force 
Sets  me  more  distant  from  a prosperous  course. 

Yet,  0 the  thought,  that  thou  art  safe,  and  he ! 

That  thought  is  joy,  arrive  what  may  to  me. 

My  boast  is  not  that  I deduce  my  birth 
From  loins  enthroned,  and  rulers  of  the  earth ; 

But  higher  far  my  proud  pretensions  rise,  — 

The  son  of  parents  passed  into  the  skies. 


nature’s  ministrations. 


317 


And  now  farewelj,  — Time  unrevoked  hath  run 
His  wonted  course,  yet  what  I wished  is  done. 

By  contemplation’s  help,  not  sought  in  vain, 

I seem  t’  have  lived  my  childhood  o’er  again ; 

To  have  renewed  the  joys  that  once  were  mine. 
Without  the  sin  of  violating  thine  ; 

And  while  the  wings  of  Fancy  still  are  free, 

And  I can  view  this  mimic  show  of  thee. 

Time  has  but  half  succeeded  in  his  theft,  — 
Thyself  removed,  thy  power  to  soothe  me  left. 

COWP^IR. 


NATURE’S  MINISTRATIONS. 

Nature  never  did  betray 
The  heart  that  loved  her ; ’t  is  her  privilege. 
Through  all  the  years  of  this  our  life,  to  lead 
From  joy  to  joy ; for  she  can  so  inform 
The  mind  that  is  within  us,  so  impress 
With  quietness  and  beauty,  and  so  feed 
With  lofty  thoughts,  that  neither  evil  tongues, 
Bash  judgments,  nor  the  sneers  of  selfish  men. 
Nor  greetings  where  no  kindness  is,  nor  all 
The  dreary  intercourse  of  daily  life. 

Shall  e’er  prevail  against  us,  or  disturb 
Our  cheerful  faith,  that  all  which  we  behold 
Is  full  of  blessings.  Therefore  let  the  moon 
Shine  on  thee  in  thy  solitary  walk ; 

And  let  the  misty  mountain  winds  be  free 
To  blow  against  thee ; and  in  after  years. 
When  these  wild  ecstasies  shall  be  matured 
Into  a sober  pleasure,  when  thy  mind 


318 


SELECTIONS  IN  POETRY. 


Shall  be  a mansion  for  all  lovely  forms, 

Thy  memory  be  as  a dwelling-place 

For  all  sweet  sounds  and  harmonies ; O ! then, 

If  solitude,  or  fear,  or  pain,  or  grief. 

Should  be  thy  portion,  with  what  healing  thoughts 
Of  tender  joy  wilt  thou  remember  me. 

And  these  my  exhortations ! 

WORDSWORTH. 


AN  EVENING  THOUGHT. 

Reflected  in  the  lake,  I love 

To  mark  the  star  of  evening  glow ; 

So  tranquil  in  the  heaven  above. 

So  restless  on  the  wave  below  ! 

Thus  heavenly  hope  is  all  serene  ; 

But  earthly  hope  — how  bright  soe’er  — 
Still  fluctuates  o’er  this  changing  scene. 

As  false  and  fleeting  as ’t  is  fair  ! 

REV.  C.  H.  TOWNSHEND. 


THE  CHILD’S  WAENING. 

There ’s  bloom  upon  the  lady’s  cheek. 
There ’s  brightness  in  her  eye  : 

Who  says  the  sentence  is  gone  forth 
That  that  fair  thing  must  die  ? 

Must  die  before  the  flowering  lime. 
Out  yonder,  sheds  its  leaf ! — 

Can  this  thing  be  ? 0 human  flower ! 
Is  then  thy  date  so  brief  ? 


THE  child’s  warning. 


319 


Nay,  nay,  ’t  is  but  a passing  cloud, 

Thou  did’st  but  droop  awhile ; 

There ’s  life,  long  years,  and  love  and  joy. 
Whole  ages,  in  that  smile,  — 

In  the  gay  call  that  to  thy  knee 
Brings  quick  that  loving  child. 

Who  looks  up  in  those  laughing  eyes 
With  his  large  eyes  so  mild. 

Yet,  thou  art  doomed,  — art  dying ! all 
The  coming  hour  foresee. 

But,  in  Love’s  cowardice,  withhold 
The  warning  word  from  thee  ! 

God  keep  thee  and  be  merciful ! 

His  strength  is  with  the  weak ; 

Through  babes  and  sucklings  the  Most  High 
Hath  oft  vouchsafed  to  speak,  — 

And  speaketh  now,  “0,  mother  dear ! ” 
Murmurs  the  little  child ; 

And  there  is  trouble  in  his  eyes. 

Those  large  blue  eyes  so  mild,  — 

“0,  mother  dear ! they  say  that  soon, 

When  here  I seek  for  thee, 

I shall  not  find  thee  ; nor  out  there, 

Under  the  old  oak-tree  ; 

“ Nor  up  stairs  in  the  nursery. 

Nor  anywhere,  they  say ; — 

Where  wilt  thou  go  to,  mother  dear  ? 

0,  do  not  go  away  ! ” 


320 


SELECTIONS  IN  POETRY. 


Then  was  long  silence,  a deep  hush, 

And  then  the  child’s  low  sob  : 

Her  quivering  eyelids  close,  — one  hand 
Keeps  down  the  heart’s  quick  throb. 

And  the  lips  move,  though  sound  is  none,  — 
That  inward  voice  is  prayer ! 

And  hark  ! “ Thy  will,  0 Lord,  be  done ! ” 
And  tears  are  trickling  there, 

Down  that  pale  cheek,  on  that  young  head ; 
And  round  her  neck  he  clings ; 

And  child  and  mother  murmur  out 
Unutterable  things. 

He  half  unconscious,  — she  deep-struck 
With  sudden  solemn  truth. 

That  numbered  are  her  days  on  earth. 

Her  shroud  prepared  in  youth ; 

That  all  in  life  her  heart  holds  dear 
God  calls  her  to  resign,  — 

She  hears,  feels,  trembles,  but  looks  up. 

And  sighs,  “ Thy  will  be  mine  I ” 

MRS.  SOUTHEY. 


IMMORTAL  HOPES. 

0,  WHAT  were  life. 

Even  in  the  warm  and  summer  light  of  joy. 
Without  those  hopes,  that,  like  refreshing  gales 
At  evening  from  the  sea,  come  o’er  the  soul, 
Breathed  from  the  ocean  of  eternity ! 

A.nd  0 ! without  them  who  could  bear  the  storms 
That  fall  in  roaring  blackness  o’er  the  waters 
Of  agitated  life ! Then  hopes  arise 


HYMN  TO  ADVERSITY. 


321 


All  round  our  sinking  souls,  like  those  fair  birds, 
O’er  whose  soft  plumes  the  tempest  hath  no  power. 
Waving  their  snow-white  wings  amid  the  darkness. 
And  wiling  us,  with  gentle  motion,  on 
To  some  calm  island,  on  whose  silvery  strand 
Dropping  at  once,  they  fold  their  silent  pinions. 
And,  as  we  touch  the  shores  of  paradise. 

In  love  and  beauty  walk  around  our  feet ! 

WILSON. 


HYMN  TO  ADVERSITY. 

Daughter  of  Jove,  relentless  power. 

Thou  tamer  of  the  human  breast, 

Whose  iron  scourge  and  torturing  hour 
The  bad  affright,  afflict  the  best ! 

Bound  in  thy  adamantine  chain. 

The  proud  are  taught  to  taste  of  pain. 

And  purple  tyrants  vainly  groan, 

With  pangs  unfelt  before,  unpitied  and  alone. 

When  first  thy  sire  to  send  on  earth 
Virtue,  his  darling  child,  designed. 

To  thee  he  gave  th^  heavenly  birth. 

And  bade  to  form  her  infant  mind. 

Stern,  rugged  nurse  ! thy  rigid  lore 
With  patience  many  a year  she  bore ; 

What  sorrow  was,  thou  bad’st  her  know. 

And  from  her  own  she  learned  to  melt  at  others’  woe. 

Scared  at  thy  frown  terrific,  fly 
Self-pleasing  Folly’s  idle  brood,  — 

Wild  Laughter,  Noise,  and  thoughtless  Joy, 

And  leave  us  leisure  to  be  good. 

14^ 


u 


SELECTIONS  IN  POETIIY. 


Light  they  disperse,  and  with  them  go 
The  summer  friend,  the  flattering  foe ; 

By  vain  Prosperity  received. 

To  her  they  vow  their  truth,  and  are  again  believed. 

"Wisdom  in  sable  garb  arrayed. 

Immersed  in  rapturous  thought  profound. 

And  Melancholy,  silent  maid. 

With  leaden  eye  that  loves  the  ground. 

Still  on  thy  solemn  steps  attend  : 

AVarm  Charity,  the  general  friend. 

With  Justice,  to  herself  severe, 

And  Pity,  dropping  soft  the  sadly  pleasing  tear. 

0,  gently  on  thy  suppliant’s  head, 

Dread  goddess,  lay  thy  chastening  hand ! 

Not  in  thy  Gorgon  terrors  clad, 

Not  circled  with  the  vengeful  band. 

As  by  the  impious  thou  art  seen. 

With  thundering  voice,  and  threatening  mien, 
AVith  screaming  Horror’s  funeral  cry, 

Despair,  and  fell  Disease,  and  ghastly  Poverty  : 

Thy  form  benign,  0 goddess,  wear, 

Thy  milder  influence  impart, 

Thy  philosophic  train  be  there. 

To  soften,  not  to  wound,  the  heart. 

The  generous  spark  extinct  revive. 

Teach  me  to  love,  and  to  forgive, 

. Exact  my  own  defects  to  scan, 

. What  others  are,  to  feel,  and  know  myself  a man. 

GRAY. 


31AY. 


823 


MAY. 

I FEEL  a newer  life  in  every  gale ; — 

The  winds  that  fan  the  flowers, 

And  with  their  welcome  breathings  fill  the  sail, 
Tell  of  serener  hours,  — 

Of  hours  that  glide  unfelt  away 
Beneath  the  sky  of  May. 

The  spirit  of  the  gentle  south- wind  calls 
From  his  blue  throne  of  air. 

And  where  his  whispering  voice  in  music  falls. 
Beauty  is  budding  there ; 

The  bright  ones  of  the  valley  break 
Their  slumbers,  and  awake. 


‘24 


SELECTIONS  IN  POETRY. 


The  waving  verdure  rolls  along  thp  plain, 

And  the  wide  forest  weaves, 

To  welcome  back  its  [)lajful  mates  again, 

A canopy  of  leaves ; 

And  from  its  darkening  shadow  floats 
A gush  of  trembling  notes. 

Fairer  and  brighter  spreads  the  reign  of  May ; 

The  tresses  of  the  woods 
With  the  light  dallying  of  the  west-wind  play ; 

And  the  full  brimming  floods. 

As  gladly  to  their  goal  they  run. 

Hail  the  returning  sun. 

PERCIVAL. 


STANZAS. 

If  I had  thought  thou  couldst  have  died, 
I might  not  weep  for  thee ; 

But  I forgot,  when  by  thy  side, 

That  thou  couldst  mortal  be  : 

It  never  through  my  mind  had  past, 

The  time  would  e’er  be  o’er, 

And  I on  thee  should  look  my  last, 

And  thou  shouldst  smile  no  more  ! 

And  still  upon  that  face  I look, 

And  think  ’twill  smile  again ; 

And  still  the  thought  I will  not  brook. 
That  I must  look  in  vain ! 

But  when  I speak,  thou  dost  not  say. 
What  thou  ne’er  left’st  unsaid ; 

And  now  I feel,  as  well  I may. 

Sweet  Mary ! thou  art  dead  ! 


ELEGY  WRITTEN  IN  A COUNTRY  CnURCII-YARD.  325 

If  thou  would’st  stay,  e’en  as  thou  art, 

All  cold  and  all  serene, 

I still  might  press  thy  silent  heart. 

And  where  thy  smiles  have  been  ! 

While  e’en  thy  chill,  bleak  corse  I have. 

Thou  seemest  still  mine  own  ; 

But  there  I lay  thee  in  thy  grave,  — 

And  I am  now  alone  ! 

I do  not  think,  where’er  thou  art. 

Thou  hast  forgotten  me ; 

And  I,  perhaps,  may  soothe  this  heart, 

In  thinking  too  of  thee  : 

Yet  there  was  round  thee  such  a dawn 
Of  light  ne’er  seen  before. 

As  Fancy  never  could  have  drawn. 

And  never  can  restore ! 

CHARLES  WOLFE. 


ELEGY  WRITTEN  IN  A COUNTRY  CHURCH-YARU. 

The  curfew  tolls  the  knell  of  parting  day. 

The  lowing  herd  winds  slowly  o’er  the  lea, 

The  ploughman  homeward  plods  his  weary  w’^ay. 
And  leaves  the  world  to  darkness  and  to  me. 

Now  fades  the  glimmering  landscape  on  the  sight, 
And  all  the  air  a solemn  stillness  holds. 

Save  where  the  beetle  wheels  his  droning  flight, 
And  drowsy  tinklings  lull  the  distant  folds : 

Save  that  from  yonder  ivy-mantled  tower 
The  moping  owl  does  to  the  moon  complain 
Of  such  as,  wandering  near  her  secret  bower. 
Molest  her  ancient  solitary  reign. 


326 


SELECTIONS  IN  rOETRV. 


Beneath  those  rugged  elms,  that  yew-tree’s  shade, 
Where  heaves  the  turf  in  many  a mouldering  hea}», 

Each  in  his  narrow  cell  forever  laid. 

The  rude  forefathers  of  the  hamlet  sleep. 

The  breezy  call  of  incense-breathing  morn. 

The  swallow  twittering  from  the  straw-built  shed, 

The  cock’s  shrill  clarion,  or  the  echoing  horn. 

No  more  shall  rouse  them  from  their  lowly  bed. 

For  them  no  more  the  blazing  hearth  shall  burn. 

Or  busy  housewife  ply  her  evening  care ; 

No  children  run  to  lisp  their  sire’s  return. 

Or  climb  his  knees,  the  envied  kiss  to  share. 

Oft  did  the  harvest  to  their  sickle  yield, 

Their  furrow  oft  the  stubborn  glebe  has  broke ; 

How  jocund  did  they  drive  their  team  afield ! 

How  bowed  the  woods  beneath  their  sturdy  stroke ! 

Let  not  Ambition  mock  their  useful  toil. 

Their  homely  joys,  and  destiny  obscure ; 

Nor  Grandeur  hear  with  a disdainful  smile 
The  short  and  simple  annals  of  the  poor. 

The  boast  of  heraldry,  the  pomp  of  power, 

And  all  that  beauty,  all  that  wealth,  e’er  gave, 

Await  alike  the  inevitable  hour ; 

The  paths  of  glory  lead  but  to  the  grave. 

Nor  you,  ye  proud,  impute  to  these  the  fault, 

If  memory  o’er  their  tomb  no  trophies  raise. 

Where  through  the  long-drawn  aisle  and  fretted  vault 
The  pealing  anthem  swells  the  note  of  praise. 


ELEGY  WHITTEN  IN  A COUNTRY  CHURCH- YARD.  327 

Caa  storied  urn  or  animated  bust 

Back  to  its  mansion  call  the  fleeting  breath  ? 

Can  Honor’s  voice  provoke  the  silent  dust, 

Or  Flattery  soothe  the  dull  cold  ear  of  Death  ? 

Perhaps  in  this  neglected  spot  is  laid 

Some  heart  once  pregnant  with  celestial  fire ; 

Hands  that  the  rod  of  empire  might  have  swayed, 

Or  waked  to  ecstasy  the  living  lyre. 

But  Knowledge  to  their  eyes  her  ample  page, 

Rich  with  the  spoils  of  time,  did  ne’er  unroll ; 

Chill  Penury  repressed  their  noble  rage. 

And  froze  the  genial  current  of  the  soul. 

Full  many  a gem  of  purest  ray  serene 
The  dark  unfathomed  caves  of  ocean  bear ; 

Full  many  a flower  is  born  to  blush  unseen. 

And  waste  its  sweetness  on  the  desert  air. 

Some  village  Hampden,  that  with  dauntless  breast 
The  little  tyrant  of  his  fields  withstood,  — 

Some  mute,  inglorious  Milton,  — here  may  rest ; 
Some  Cromwell,  guiltless  of  his  country’s  blood. 

The  applause  of  listening  senates  to  command. 

The  threats  of  pain  and  ruin  to  despise. 

To  scatter  plenty  o’er  a smiling  land. 

And  read  their  history  in  a nation’s  eyes. 

Their  lot  forbade ; nor  circumscribed  alone 

Their  growing  virtues,  but  their  crimes  confined ; 

Forbade  to  wade  through  slaughter  to  a throne. 

And  shut  the  gates  of  mercy  on  mankind  : 


SELECTIONS  IN  POETllY. 


The  struggling  pangs  of  conscious  truth  to  hide, 

To  quench  the  blushes  of  ingenuous  shame, 

Or  heap  the  shrine  of  luxury  and  pride 
AVith  incense  kindled  at  the  Muses’  flame. 

Far  from  the  madding  crowd’s  ignoble  strife, 

Their  sober  wishes  never  learned  to  stray  ; 

Along  the  cool  sequestered  vale  of  life 

They  kept  the  noiseless  tenor  of  their  way. 

Yet  even  these  bones  from  insult  to  protect, 

Some  frail  memorial  still  erected  nigh, 

With  uncouth  rhymes  and  shapeless  sculpture  decked, 
Implores  the  passing  tribute  of  a sigh. 

Their  name,  their  years,  spelt  by  the  unlettered  Muse, 
The  place  of  fame  and  elegy  supply ; 

And  many  a holy  text  around  she  strews. 

To  teach  the  rustic  moralist  to  die. 

For  who,  to  dumb  forgetfulness  a prey. 

This  pleasing  anxious  being  e’er  resigned. 

Left  the  warm  precincts  of  the  cheerful  day. 

Nor  cast  one  longing,  lingering  look  behind  ? 

On  some  fond  breast  the  parting  soul  relies, 

Some  pious  drops  the  closing  eye  requires ; 

Even  from  the  tomb  the  voice  of  nature  cries. 

Even  in  our  ashes  live  their  wonted  fires. 

For  thee,  who,  mindful  of  the  unhonored  dead. 

Dost  in  these  lines  th.eir  artless  tale  relate, 

If  chance,  by  lonely  contemplation  led, 

Some  kindred  spirit  shall  inquire  thy  fate  : 


ELEGY  WRITTEN  IN  A COUNTRY  CHURCH- YARD.  320 


Haply  some  hoary-headed  swain  may  say, 

“ Oft  have  we  seen  him  at  the  peep  of  dawn 

Brushing  with  hasty  steps  the  dews  away, 

To  meet  the  sun  upon  the  upland  lawn. 

“ There,  at  the  foot  of  yonder  nodding  beech 
That  wreathes  its  old  fantastic  roots  so  high. 

His  listless  length  at  noontide  would  he  stretch. 

And  pore  upon  the  brook  that  babbles  by. 

“ Hard  by  yon  wood,  now  smiling  as  in  scorn, 

Muttering  his  wayward  fancies,  would  he  rove, 

Now  drooping,  woful-wan,  like  one  forlorn. 

Or  crazed  with  care,  or  crossed  in  hopeless  love. 

“ One  morn  I missed  him  on  the  accustomed  hill. 

Along  the  heath,  and  near  his  favorite  tree  : 

Another  came,  — nor  yet  beside  the  rill. 

Nor  up  the  lawn,  nor  at  the  wood,  was  he  : 

“ The  next,  with  dirges  due,  in  sad  array. 

Slow  through  the  church- way  path  we  saw  him  borne. 

Approach  and  read  (for  thou  canst  read)  the  lay 
Graved  on  the  stone  beneath  yon  aged  thorn.” 

THE  EPITAPH. 

Here  rests  his  head  upon  the  lap  of  earth 
A youth  to  fortune  and  to  fame  unknown ; 

Fair  Science  frowned  not  on  his  humble  birth. 

And  Melancholy  marked  him  for  her  own. 

Large  was  his  bounty,  and  his  soul  sincere ; 

Heaven  did  a recompense  as  largely  send ; 

He  gave  to  misery  (all  he  had)  a tear. 

He  gained  from  heaven  (’t  was  all  he  wished)  a friend. 


330 


SELECTIONS  IN  POETRY. 


No  farther  seek  his  merits  to  disclose, 

Or  draw  his  frailties  from  their  dread  abode 
(There  they  alike  in  trembling  hope  repose), 

The  bosom  of  his  Father  and  his  God. 

GUAY. 


LIFE  BEYOND  THE  TOMB. 

Such  is  the  destiny  of  all  on  earth : 

So  flourishes  and  fades  majestic  Man  ; — 

Fair  is  the  bud  his  vernal  morn  brings  forth, 

And  fostering  gales  a while  the  nursling  fan. 

0 smile,  ye  Heavens,  serene  ! Ye  mildews  wan, 
Ye  blighting  whirlwinds,  spare  his  balmy  prime. 
Nor  lessen  of  his  life  the  little  span. 

Borne  on  the  swift  though  silent  wings  of  Time, 
Old  age  comes  on  apace,  to  ravage  all  the  clime. 

And  be  it  so.  Let  those  deplore  their  doom, 
Whose  hope  still  grovels  in  this  dark  sojourn ; 
But  lofty  souls,  who  look  beyond  the  tomb. 

Can  smile  at  Fate,  and  wonder  how  they  mourn. 
Shall  spring  to  these  sad  scenes  no  more  return  ? 

Is  yonder  wave  the  sun’s  eternal  bed  ? 

Soon  shall  the  Orient  with  new  lustre  burn. 

And  Spring  shall  soon  her  vital  influence  shed, 
Again  attune  the  grove,  again  adorn  the  mead. 

Shall  I be  left,  forgotten  in  the  dust. 

When  Fate,  relenting,  lets  the  flower  revive  ? 
Shall  Nature’s  voice,  to  Man  alone  unjust. 

Bid  him,  though  doomed  to  perish,  hope  to  live  ? 
Is  it  for  this  fair  Virtue  oft  must  strive 


THE  RAINBOW. 


oo-| 

ooi 

With  disappointment,  penury,  and  pain  ? 

No  ! Heaven’s  immortal  spring  shall  yet  arrive. 

And  man’s  majestic  beauty  bloom  again, 

Bright  through  the  eternal  year  of  Love’s  triumphant 
reign. 

BEATTIE. 


TO  THE  RAINBOW. 

Triumphal  arch,  that  fill’st  the  sky 
When  storms  prepare  to  part, 

I ask  not  proud  Philosophy 
To  teach  me  what  thou  art. 

Still  seem,  as  to  my  childhood’s  sight, 
A midway  station  given. 

For  happy  spirits  to  alight 
Betwixt  the  earth  and  heaven. 

Can  all  that  optics  teach  unfold 
Thy  form  to  please  me  so 
As  when  I dreamt  of  gems  and  gold 
Hid  in  thy  radiant  bow  ? 

When  Science  from  Creation’s  face 
Enchantment’s  veil  withdraws. 
What  lovely  visions  yield  their  place 
To  cold  material  laws  I 

And  yet,  fair  bow,  no  fabling  dreams. 
But  words  of  the  Most  High, 

Have  told  why  first  thy  robe  of  beams 
Was  woven  in  the  sky. 


SEJJ^CTIONS  IN  POETRY. 


When  o’er  the  green  undeluged  earth 
Heaven’s  covenant  thou  didst  shine, 

IIow  came  the  world’s  gray  fathers  foi*th, 
To  watch  thy  sacred  sign  ! 

And  when  its  yellow  lustre  smiled 
O’er  mountains  yet  untrod, 

Each  mother  held  aloft  her  child, 

To  bless  the  bow  of  God. 

3Iethinks,  thy  jubilee  to  keep. 

The  first-made  anthem  rang 

On  earth,  delivered  from  the  deep, 

And  the  first  poet  sang. 

Nor  ever  shall  the  Muse’s  eye 
Unraptured  greet  thy  beam  ; 

Theme  of  primeval  prophecy. 

Be  still  the  poet’s  theme  ! 

The  earth  to  thee  her  incense  yields. 

The  lark  thy  welcome  sings. 

When,  glittering  in  the  freshened  fields, 
The  snowy  mushroom  springs. 

How  glorious  is  thy  girdle  cast 
O’er  mountain,  tower  and  town, 

Or  mirrored  in  the  ocean  vast, 

A thousand  fathoms  down  ! 

As  fresh  in  yon  horizon  dark. 

As  young,  thy  beauties  seem, 

As  when  the  eagle  from  the  ark 
First  sported  in  thy  beam,. 


^UTUMN. 


For,  faithful  to  its  sacred  page, 

Heaven  still  rebuilds  thj  span, 

Nor  lets  the  type  grow  pale  with  age, 

That  first  spoke  peace  to  man. 

CAMPBELL. 


AUTUMN. 

The  sylvan  slopes  with  corn-clad  fields 
x\re  hung,  as  if  with  golden  shields. 
Bright  trophies  of  the  sun ! 

Like  a fair  sister  of  the  sky,  ^ 

Unruffled  doth  the  blue  lake  lie, 

^ The  mountains  looking  on. 

And,  sooth  to  say,  yon  vocal  grove, 
Albeit  uninspired  by  love. 

By  love  untaught  to  ring. 

May  well  afford  to  mortal  ear 
An  impulse  more  profoundly  dear 
Than  music  of  the  spring. 

For  that  from  turbulence  and  heat 
Proceeds,  from  some  uneasy  seat 
In  nature’s  struggling  frame,  — 
Some  region  of  impatient  life  ; 
x\nd  jealousy  and  quivering  strife 
Therein  a portion  claim. 

This,  this  is  holy  ; while  I hear 
These  vespers  of  another  year. 

This  hymn  of  thanks  and  praise. 

My  spirit  seems  to  mount  above 


1 


831 


SELECTIONS  IN  POETRY. 

The  anxieties  of  human  love, 

And  earth’s  precarious  days. 

But  list ! though  winter  storms  Ixi  nigh, 
Unchecked  is  that  soft  harmony ; 

There  Jives  Who  can  provide 
For  all  his  creatures;  and  in  Him, 

Even  like  the  radiant  seraphim, 

These  choristers  confide. 

WORDSWORTH. 


THE  DYING  CHRISTIAN  TO  HIS  SOUL. 

Vital  spark  of  heavenly  flame. 

Quit,  0,  quit  this  mortal  frame ! 
Trembling,  hoping,  lingering,  flying, 

0,  the  pain,  the  bliss,  of  dying ! 

Cease,  fond  Nature,  cease  thy  strife, 

And  let  me  languish  into  life  ! 

Hark  ! they  whisper  ; angels  say, 

Sister  Spirit,  come  away ; 

What  is  this  absorbs  me  quite,  — 

Steals  my  senses,  shuts  my  sight, 

Drowns  my  spirit,  draws  my  breath  ? 

Tell  me,  my  soul ! can  this  be  death  ? 

The  world  recedes,  — it  disappears ! 
Heaven  opens  on  my  eyes ! my  ears 
With  sounds  seraphic  ring  ! 

Lend,  lend  your  wings  ! I mount,  I fly  I 
0 Grave  ! where  is  thy  victory  ? 

0 Death  ! where  is  thy  sting  ? 


POPE. 


NATURE  AND  HER  LOVER. 


335 


NATURE  AND  HER  LOVER. 

I REMEMBER  the  time,  thou  roaring  sea, 

When  thj  voice  was  the  voice  of  Infinity, — 

A joy,  and  a dread,  and  a mystery. 

I remember  the  time,  ye  young  May-flowers, 

When  your  odors  and  hues  in  the  fields  and  bowers 
Fell  on  my  soul  as  on  grass  the  showers. 

I remember  the  time,  thou  blustering  wind, 

When  thy  voice  in  the  woods,  to  my  dreaming  mind, 
Seemed  the  sigh  of  the  earth  for  human  kind. 

I remember  the  time,  ye  sun  and  stars. 

When  ye  raised  my  soul  from  mortal  bars. 

And  bore  it  through  heaven  in  your  golden  cars. 

And  has  it,  then,  vanished,  that  dreamful  time  ? 

Are  the  winds,  and  the  seas,  and  the  stars  sublime. 

Deaf  to  thy  soul  in  its  manly  prime  ? 

Ah,  no ! ah,  no ! amid  sorrow  and  pain, 

When  the  world  and  its  facts  oppress  my  brain. 

In  the  world  of  spirit  I rove,  I reign. 

I feel  a deep  and  a pure  delight 
In  the  luxuries  of  sound  and  sight,  — 

In  the  opening  day,  in  the  closing  night. 

The  voices  of  youth  go  with  me  still. 

Through  the  field  and  the  wood,  o’er  the  plain  and  the  hill ; 
In  the  roar  of  the  sea,  in  the  laugh  of  the  rill. 

Every  flower  is  a Idver  of  mine. 

Every  star  is  a friend  divine  ; 

For  me  they  blossom,  for  me  they  shine. 


330 


SELECTIONS  IN  POETRY. 


To  give  me  joy  the  oceans  roll, 

They  breathe  their  secrets  to  my  soul, 

With  me  they  sing,  with  me  condole. 

Man  cannot  harm  me,  if  he  would  ; 

I have  h\ich.  friends  for  my  every  mood, 

In  the  overflowing  solitude. 

Fate  cannot  -touch  me  ; nothing  can  stir 
To  put  disunion  or  hate  of  her 
’Twixt  nature  and  her  worshipper. 

Sing  to  me,  flowers  ! preach  to  me,  skies ! 

Ye  landscapes,  glitter  in  mine  eyes.! 

Whisper,  ye  deeps,  your  mysteries  ! 

Sigh  to  me,  winds  ! ye  forests,  nod ! 

Speak  to  me  ever,  thou  flowery  sod  ! 

Ye  are  mine  — all  mine  — in  the  peace  of  God. 


MACKAY. 


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